


When Darkness Falls

by prongsdeer



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Banter, Civil War, Companions, Drinking, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/M, Family Drama, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, POV Alternating, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27994146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prongsdeer/pseuds/prongsdeer
Summary: Skyrim never treated Méra well. When it needs to be saved, she doesn't want to take a part in it. She tries to run away, but she has to realize she can't escape her fate.
Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Vilkas
Comments: 30
Kudos: 34





	1. Recipe for Disaster

**Author's Note:**

> And I'm back!  
> This story is a revised version of my old fic under the same title.  
> If you read the previous version of When Darkness Falls: thank you so much for still being here, not giving up on me and giving this fic another chance. You're all amazing and I'm so thankful for your support! Please note that while some chapters stayed pretty much the same, there are going to be parts that I've changed completely (hopefully, for the better).  
> If you're new to this story, welcome here; I hope you're all going to enjoy Méra and Vilkas' journey. 💙

If there was one thing that Méra hated more than anything in the world, it was _waiting_. The list was long, but doing nothing was on the top of it, and spending two never-ending days at the Nightgate Inn only reminded her how insufferable it was. She preferred to keep herself busy; less time to let her mind wander to places where it shouldn’t.

Before she straightened to look around, she slipped the dagger she had been playing with under the table in the past minutes back into her boots. Only a few people lingered in the main hall of the inn. Her gaze met the innkeeper’s one good eye, since the other was milky white and surrounded by deep, black scars. Méra knew no blade but only magic could leave marks like those. The man, who usually wore a strict face, immediately started grinning at the sight of the woman’s tiny smile; her icy blue eyes locking with his. She had gentle eyes, but a blazing look, as Astrid never failed to point out.

Hadring, the innkeeper, scratched his shaggy beard, and while his eye was glued to Méra, he accidentally wiped a tankard of ale off the table. She couldn’t stifle a quiet groan while the old Nord crouched down to clean up his mess.

She brushed a loose strand of dark red hair out of her face, before she stood up from the table—which, thanks to that godsforsaken dress, wasn’t easy at all. To walk the numbing stiffness out of her legs, Méra paced around the inn; her eyes wandering towards the basement behind the bar.

_That damned Orc._

Ever since he arrived at the Nightgate Inn, Balagog gro-Nolob never left the place. He spent most of his time downstairs, the door of his room securely locked. It crossed her mind to pick the lock, but if she broke in, that fool would immediately scream for help. Usually, it wouldn’t bother her, but this wasn’t that kind of a job.

Méra tried to lure him out of the inn several times. Wrapping men and women around her fingers was never a tough task for her: her appearance itself was enough to do most of the job. But not with the Gourmet - the most famous cook of the Empire. 

By the middle of the third night, when she seriously started to consider murdering him in front of everyone, Balagog simply walked up from the basement and went straight outside. As taken aback as she was, Méra wasted no time.

But just as her palm touched the door to push it open, the innkeeper spoke,

“You’re going to get cold, lady.”

 _Shit._ If there was the tiniest chance that the man would follow her outside, he could easily ruin everything. Méra heaved a sigh but didn’t hesitate much before she walked back to Hadring. She stopped close enough that she could almost feel his body tensing at her approach. 

“I need to get some fresh air. This wine is getting straight to my head,” she said with a chuckle, touching his arm. “Why don’t you prepare a room for us in the meantime?”

His breath caught in his throat. “A room? I mean, my customers—”

“But Hadring,” she whined, tilting her head. “Are these drunken men really more important to you than I am?”

“No! Of course not,” he said, almost desperately, and Méra knew she had won.

“Then go, before I change my mind.”

The innkeeper nodded hastily and Méra left the room, not looking back to check if he did as he was told. 

The night was clear with no snow falling and no wind howling, yet it was so cold it burned her cheeks like fire. She leaned down and pulled her knife out of her boot, before she hid it under the sleeve of her dress. Her steps were light, quiet; even the snow was silent under her feet. She spotted the Orc: he stood at the docks behind the inn, looking into the nothingness. 

Balagog kept his identity in secret. While the Gourmet was the most celebrated cook of the Empire, no one knew who he really was. It took Méra agonizingly long weeks to figure it out and find him. All that secrecy... and it only brought him to his own end.

When she was close enough, Méra slipped the dagger down her arm; the tip of the blade hidden behind her fingers. The weight of her dress brushed against the wood she was walking on, and she didn’t even notice how loud it was in the silent night; not until the Gourmet suddenly turned around. Her eyes widened for a second, but she tried to disguise her surprise with a smile.

The Orc sighed. “I’ve already told you, m’lady. I’m not interested.”

“Well, that’s a shame,” she said with ease, taking one last step closer, before she raised her hand and slit his throat. “Sorry, Balagog. I’m in a hurry.”

His eyes were round and desperate while his hands came to wrap around his neck, clinging onto his life until his very last breath. While Méra waited until he fell on his knees and choked on his own blood, she wiped her dagger clean on his green tunic. The dark ebony blade swallowed every bit from the moonlight.

Dragging an Orc through the docks and into the woods wasn’t easy at all. Usually, it wasn’t a problem to leave bodies behind, sometimes even in the middle of a town (in fact, in some cases it was even required), but now, Méra had one clear instruction about the job: _hide the body_. It was all part of a bigger plan, after all. 

“Did you miss me, girl?” She asked the black mare with a smile, which quickly turned back into a scowl when she finally dropped the body. The cloth that she had wrapped around his neck to avoid leaving a trail of blood on her way was soaked by now, but only left red marks in the white snow around the last few steps. She didn’t bother with covering it; the weather will take care of it soon. 

Méra scratched Shadowmere’s nose, before she lifted her knapsack off her back. Stripping out of her dress in the middle of the snowy, frosty forest was not a pleasant thing to do. She quickly put on the black leather armour and her cape, hiding her red locks behind the hood. She pulled a small jar out of her pocket, half-full of a dense, dark liquid. Digging two fingers in it, she brushed it against her eyelids, from one to another, carefully covering the freckles around her eyes.

Without doubt, Méra was a great assassin, but her features could easily get her into trouble. She considered only sheer luck she was still free and alive.

She cleaned her hands in the snow before she pulled on her gloves; then hopped up on Shadowmere’s back, leaving Balagog’s body behind.

* * *

The early morning rays of the sun warmed her cheeks deliciously when she finally reached the border of Falkreath, and she pulled off her hood, letting her locks brush against her clothed shoulder. She made a mental note to remind Astrid that the next time, she wanted to take a job someplace warmer. There was something homelike in the quieter, cold places, and Méra could find comfort in them, but she preferred sunnier cities.

The city of Falkreath was close to the sanctuary, _too close_ , but she avoided it every time she had a chance. She trotted around the city and down the little valley, deep in the Pine Forest, where her home was hidden from prying eyes. Méra slid off of Shadowmere’s back and let the mare go back into her resting place, before she stepped to the door. 

It was unmistakable, even though it was hidden behind trees and bushes. There was a skull carved into the stone door, with a crimson handprint burned into it. Méra placed her own hand on it, waiting for the familiar voice to speak,

“What is the music of life?”

“Silence, my brother,” she replied, and a moment later, the secret door opened with a soft click.

Since they mostly worked in the shadows of the night, it didn’t come as a surprise that she found no one in the main room of the sanctuary at these early hours. She walked down the dark corridors and small chambers, until she reached the dining hall. Her stomach growled loudly at the sight of the food that remained there from last night, so she dropped herself down on a chair to eat some cold, roasted chicken and fruits.

“By Sithis.” Astrid hurried down the wooden steps, sleepy and disheveled. She had been all over the place lately. “What took you so long?”

Méra lazily turned back with a smirk and leaned against the backrest of the chair, wiping her hands off at a napkin. “I couldn’t buy him with my charm. Can you believe it?”

Astrid’s features finally softened as she smiled, resting her hip against the table. “Hardly.”

“He’s dead. Don’t worry.”

“Did you hide the body?” The blonde woman asked. Méra didn’t answer, but gave her a pointed look which said: _come on, I’m not an amateur_. “Good,” Astrid went on. “Go and get some sleep. I’ll fill you in on the details later.”

Méra didn’t argue. She hadn’t slept for more than two days, but the exhaustion had only just started to reach her now that she was home. In the past few weeks, she had been busier than any time since before she first stepped into the sanctuary. The assassination of Gaius Maro. The murder of Vittoria Vici. Cicero… She really wouldn’t mind if she could take off a few weeks.

Her chamber was simple with a small bed, a chair and a table, a bookshelf and a long weapon rack. Different kinds of swords and bows hung off of it, but since she mostly used her ebony dagger, they served mostly as decorations. The only two she used were placed on the table.

One of them was a short ebony sword with glowing runes carved into the blade, enchanted to suck the soul out of the person she killed. It was a gift from Astrid. A wicked weapon. 

The other, an ancient Akaviri sword that even without the enchantments was one of a kind; its blade sharp like the day it was forged. Méra stole it from her brother the day she had fled from home.

She shed her clothes and plopped down on the bed, curling under warm and soft furs. It only took a few minutes for her to fall asleep.

* * *

Living underground had its benefits: it was safe and it was quiet, but the one thing that Méra never got used to was that she could never tell for sure whether it was day or night. She had no idea how much she had slept when she opened her eyes in the pitch-dark room, hours or mere minutes, but she felt well-rested enough to leave her bed.

Every room and corridor seemed deserted and eerily quiet, until she found Babette in her usual place, sitting near Lis’ nest and humming a song. Méra winced in disgust as she saw the girl throwing dead skeevers to her giant pet-spider.

“Why are you wearing that ridiculous war paint, dear?” Babette asked without turning around.

Méra wiped the back of her hands down her temple—she had completely forgotten to wash her disguise off before she fell into her bed. 

“You know I have to,” she said, before she went to a dresser and poured some water into a bowl, rubbing her face clean.

“I like your freckles,” the little vampire said, turning around to face her. “They give you such an innocent look. _That_ is the best disguise for someone like us.” 

She chuckled quietly, before drying her cheeks with a small towel. “Astrid says I look like a southern whore with them.”

Babette sighed, her voice quiet and distant when she spoke, “Astrid has been saying a lot of things lately.”

There was something in her voice that deepened the creases on Méra’s forehead. She walked a few steps closer, stopping behind Babette whose glowing red eyes were on Lis again. 

“You don’t trust her anymore.”

It wasn’t a question. Méra could see what the leader’s latest actions had caused within the brotherhood: many were losing their faith in Astrid. Neither said it out loud, but there was an underlying tension that either of them could hide.

Babette didn’t reply and didn’t look at her. She kept watching the spider, but Méra had the feeling she was just staring into the distance, far, far away from here. She almost gave up and left when the girl finally turned to her,

“I trust Astrid. But I’m not sure her decisions are… appropriate,” she said quietly. “Are you sure that disobeying the Night Mother is a good idea? That breaking the tenets is the right thing to do?”

Méra swallowed hard. “We aren’t disobeying the Night Mother. The contract is still on.”

Babette smirked, but Méra didn’t miss her hesitation. “Good. About that… I think Astrid wants to speak with you. So does Krex.”

Feeling more than a little overwhelmed after their conversation, Méra dragged herself out of the room. How could she question Astrid after everything they had gone through together? She was only eighteen when she had joined the Dark Brotherhood, lost and lonely. Astrid gave her a home. A family. Things she had been longing for more than she would ever admit - even to herself. Where would she be now if they had never met? 

Méra hated questioning the leader, but she couldn’t help but wonder: was blindly following her a good idea? 

She was so immersed in her thoughts that she almost didn’t realize that she had reached Festus Krex’s chamber. As always, the old man sat behind his desk, surrounded by flasks, vials, and all kinds of herbs. 

“Hello, Krexy.”

Méra couldn’t tell for sure whether he ignored her or he simply didn’t hear her. Lately, the old man was having problems with his ears, even though he refused to admit it. Nevertheless, she walked in and sat down across from him, crossing her legs up on the desk.

After heaving a long and exhausted sigh, Festus lifted his head, giving her a look that parents give their children after they had done something wrong. 

“The cook is dead.”

“I know,” he said shortly, placing down some ingredients with his shaky hands. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a small pouch: its contents clinked when he dropped it next to Méra’s legs. She measured its weight in her hands while Krex reached into the pocket of his robe, standing up and walking around the table. There was a shiny silver ring on his palm, surrounded by a strange, purple hue. 

Méra took her legs off the table. “Thank you, Krexy, but you’re a little old for me, don’t you think?”

An annoyed growl rumbled his chest. “You will never stop being an insolent little shit, will you? Take it now,” he said, while Méra grinned, watching the ring. “A little extra for hiding the body. It’s enchanted. Enhances the power of your destruction spells.”

She couldn’t hide a wince while pocketing the ring. When did she ever use magic? Méra never had much talent for it. And the idea of putting an enchanted ring on her finger didn’t seem appealing to her either.

“So? How did you kill him?” Festus laughed, rubbing his hands together. “Fireballs in the face?”

“Setting him on fire in the middle of the night would have drawn too much attention, don’t you think?” She asked with a shake of her head, standing up. “I slit his throat.”

The old man followed her while she walked out of his room, murmuring that one can never go wrong with fireballs. Festus said if it was up to him, he would have baked the Orc into a pie and serve it to the Emperor, just for the sake of it. Thankfully, they reached Astrid’s door before he could start getting into the details of his special recipe. 

Recently, the leader had started keeping her door locked. Méra wasn’t sure if it was since Cicero attacked them or a little prior to his rampage, but Astrid had been a little paranoid since the Keeper had brought the Night Mother into the sanctuary. It made her think sometimes: was she doubting everyone else too? 

Before she could knock, someone opened the door from inside. Méra wasn’t surprised to see Arnbjorn there, half-naked and with a judging expression plastered over his features. She was a tall woman, but standing next to Astrid’s husband, she almost felt small. 

“Arnbjorn,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. Ten years spent in the sanctuary and they still didn’t get along. “Going out for a little walk _in the moonlight_?”

His lips twitched. “You always know how to ruin a moment, don’t you?”

“Astrid wanted to see me. Why don’t you go and chase some squirrels?”

Arnbjorn narrowed his eyes. “I’ve had girls bigger than you for breakfast.” 

Méra rolled her eyes, pushing her way past him and into the room. “Is that supposed to scare me? You’re just a giant lapdog,” she said, closing the door before he had a chance saying anything else.

Only a few candles burned in the room, giving the place a dim, orange light. Astrid sat lazily behind her desk, wearing nothing but a silk robe, one eyebrow arched.

“Arnbjorn has a temper. All werewolves do,” she said quietly, combing her fingers through her blonde hair to adjust her disheveled locks. “You’re worse than all of them.”

Méra smiled, seating herself on one of the soft padded chairs. “Ouch. You’re hurting my feelings.” 

“I just want you to be careful.” 

Her tone and her words caught Méra off guard. She didn’t only sound scared, but almost sad even; something that didn’t sit well with Méra. Should she be worried about something?

Before she could think too much about it, Astrid cleared her throat, leaning closer above the table. 

“We have more work to do, Méra. The time has finally come. You killed Maro’s son to distract the Emperor’s guard. You killed Vittoria Vici to make sure Titus Mede II would come to Skyrim. You killed the Gourmet. And now, you will impersonate the cook… and kill the Emperor himself.” 

No reaction, no emotion; Méra made sure Astrid could read nothing off her face. They sat in perfect silence for a while, before she finally asked, “Why me?”

“Why you?” Astrid asked back, raising her eyebrows. “You’re the Listener, after all. Aren’t you?”

Her tone was dripping from cynicism, but Méra ignored it. Ever since the Night Mother spoke to her months ago, Astrid had been acting quite strangely. Was it jealousy, or did the leader truly want to abandon the old ways? Méra got used to her snarky remarks, but she couldn’t deny that deep down, it hurt. She didn’t ask to be the Listener and if she could have, she would gladly hand over the position. 

“But more importantly, you are one of our best assassins,” Astrid went on. “You’ve achieved everything that makes it possible for us to kill the Emperor. You’re the one who should do it.”

Méra nodded. “Alright. How should I do it?”

The smirk grew on Astrid’s face, sliding a piece of parchment closer to her. “Here’s the Writ of Passage that will allow you to enter the castle. You won’t be able to take weapons with you there, so I had to find another way,” she went on, opening a little box and revealing some kind of a crimson-coloured herb. “It’s called jarrin root. It kills instantly. Once you’re in the kitchen, you’ll be able to poison the food. Now, after he dies, you must flee as quickly as you can. You must escape through the upper door, and across the bridge. I’ve arranged it to be unguarded once the alarm goes off.”

Méra narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Are you sure? It’s the Emperor, after all. Why would they leave any exit unguarded?” 

“Believe me, it cost me a lot of blackmailing, bribing, and perhaps more gold than this job is actually worth for arranging all this.”

Méra was still silent. Why did she have the feeling that something was off?

“You should leave shortly. The dinner is in a few days.” 

Her words were final, and Méra knew she was finished. The plan seemed perfect— _too perfect_. 

“Shouldn’t you do something with your hair?” Astrid asked just as Méra opened the door of her bedroom. “It would be unfortunate if someone recognized you even before you have the chance to step into the castle.”

Méra shrugged. “I haven’t been there in the past fifteen years. I doubt anyone would recognize me.”

Astrid gave a nod, watching in silence as Méra walked away.


	2. To Kill an Empire

_ The sways and jolts of the carriage. Cheerfully chirping birds in the trees. A gentle, quiet humming. A sound of a loud, deep horn. Despair. Empty words. The sharp clinking of swords. A scream. Red, golden, and more red. _

Méra was startled out of her sleep, her grip tight on the dagger under the pillow. She closed her eyes again for a few moments, trying to slow down her erratic breaths, before she crawled out of the bed and walked to the window. The wooden shutters creaked loudly when she opened them, letting in some light and fresh air. The chilly breeze of the dawn lifted a loose strand of hair up from her cheek, drying the thin layer of sweat that covered her forehead after her nightmare. 

As far as she could see there was no one around; except a few people harvesting their crop in the early hours so they could reach the nearest market in time. Rorikstead was definitely one of the most quiet - and boring - villages Méra had ever been to.

Even though it was unsafe to travel by night, Méra almost never stopped after the sun set down. She mostly roamed the roads by herself, and she would rather face a group of vampires or werewolves while she was fully awake than letting them surprise her in her sleep. 

But for once, she made an exception. If she spent one night in Rorikstead, and another one in Dragon Bridge, she would reach Solitude just in time - and well rested. She didn’t want to spend any more time in the capital than it was necessary. 

By the time Méra left the inn, the sun was shining brightly and blindingly, but a few raindrops tapped gently against her cheek. The Reach’s weather was always whimsical - especially in the middle of the summer.

She wasn’t on the road for more than an hour when she spotted two Thalmor soldiers and a mage on horseback, coming from the path that led to Markarth. Her pulse kicked up a notch. She pulled her hood closer around her face and fastened Shadowmere’s pace, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the travelers. Only when they reached the crossroad, she noticed that there was someone behind them: a man with his hands bound together, in ragged clothes and barefoot, trying to keep up with the horses so he wouldn’t fall over. Méra’s nails dug into her palms.

“Where are you taking him?”

The soldiers looked back as she approached them, halting. They both ran their eyes up and down on her, exchanging a glance, as they couldn’t quite believe someone dared to question them. Their golden plated armour glimmered in the sunlight as the heavy raindrops rolled down on them, and they said nothing. 

“We’re taking him to where he belongs.” It was the mage who spoke, in his rich, black and gold robe. The Aldmeri Dominion would never miss a chance to show off their wealth. “Now, remove yourself from my presence, if you don’t want to follow him.”

Méra’s eyes found the man in the dirty clothes. He was young, perhaps even younger than her, his hair and his beard blonde under all the blood and dust. Judging by how muscular he was and that despite his injuries he could still stand, he was probably a soldier.

“I’ll gladly die, rather than deny my God and—”

Whatever he intended to say, the words got stuck in his throat when one of the Thalmor agents pulled on his rope, hard enough that their prisoner fell over and his face hit the stony road. 

Méra’s fingers tightened around the reins, but her voice was calm. “I thought this was a free province. People should be able to worship any gods they want.”

“You are right,” the mage said, his voice implying that he was starting to lose his patience. “And they have every right to worship whatever gods they like. But Talos was a man, and only a heretic would think otherwise. Certainly you can understand this. Or perhaps there is something you’d like to confess?”

Méra let out a bored sigh. “I have more important things to do, so I give you one chance to let him go and walk away.”

The mage looked at her like he wasn’t sure he heard her right. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Alright,” she murmured under her breath, before she drew her sword out of its sheath. 

Cutting a man’s head off was not easy - Méra had already learned this - but she managed to separate the mage’s head from his neck with one, clean swing of her katana. The two soldiers of the Thalmor reacted quickly, both of them attacking her with their conjured swords. She jumped off of Shadowmere’s back and they followed her, cursing loudly in the process. Her blade cut easily through the light armour of the high elf, sinking into his heart, before she pulled the sword out. His body barely hit the ground when the last one pounced at her, but she easily blocked his hits and pushed the sword through his throat. 

With the exception of Shadowmere, the horses ran away from the smell of the blood. Méra walked to the Nord man who sat on the ground, his features a mix of surprise and confusion, before she cut his bindings off. 

“Thank you,” he said; his voice dry and weak. He cleared his throat and fought himself up on his feet, following Méra who walked back to her horse. “I’m Ralof.”

She turned back. “A Stormcloak?”

“How did you know?”

“It wasn’t hard to figure it out,” Méra said, glancing at the bodies on the ground, before shoving her waterskin into his hands. “And people talk about you, you know. Ulfric’s best soldier.”

Ralof let out a bitter laugh. “Ulfric’s best soldier wouldn’t let himself get caught,” he said, before he drank some water in greedy gulps. “Are you not going to tell me your name?”

“No.”

Ralof helped her to drag the bodies off the road.

“Are you some kind of a… mercenary?”

The rain stopped and Méra pulled her hood off, letting the gentle wind blow her cheeks dry. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Are you friends with Jarl Ulfric?”

“No.”

“Are you going to Solitude?”

“Listen,” Méra breathed out while she rummaged through the pockets of the mage, hoping to find anything that could be useful. She didn’t, apart from some gold, that he shoved into Ralof’s hands. “I’m not here to make friends. Take this and leave before the Thalmor finds you again.”

“I just thought we could help each other out.”

“Do I look like I need your help?” Méra smiled, but she didn’t wait for an answer. “You, on the other hand… you won’t survive in that potato sack, so I suggest you swallow your pride and put on one of those armours. Take a horse and go home, soldier. These roads will be swamped with Thalmor as soon as they find the bodies.”

“Thank you again, stranger,” Ralof said while Méra mounted her horse. “I hope we meet again soon.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” she said, before she rode away.

* * *

Méra reached Dragon Bridge just before nightfall. She left Shadowmere outside the village; the mare always drew attention, and that was the last thing she needed now. 

She admired the sight of the giant dragon’s skull, carved into the grand stone bridge that arched across the wildly rushing Karth River. The length of the gaping emptiness between the bridge and the river was almost dizzying. Such a remarkable entrance for such a little village.

It wasn’t long ago when Méra had last visited Dragon Bridge: only a few days before she had killed Gaius Maro, the son of the Emperor’s guard’s commander. He was a great swordsman and he almost managed to beat Méra.  _ Almost. _ The fight left her with many cuts and aching bones, but Krex’s potions healed her quickly. The Penitus Oculatus Outpost looked abandoned now—surely most of the guards were placed in Solitude for the Emperor’s arrival.

The only tavern in the village, the Four Shields was surprisingly crowded when Méra walked in. At first, the innkeeper said they had no free rooms left, but after some bribing, the woman found one last quarter where Méra could stay for the night. She dined there instead of the main hall, and didn’t leave the room for the rest of the night.

There were no stars in the cloudy sky when Méra stepped out of the inn long before dawn, making the night even darker. She pulled her cloak closer around her body to protect herself from the blowing wind, walking back to Shadowmere and packing her gear up on the mare’s back. Her sword, her armour. It was safer and smarter to make the way from Dragon Bridge to Solitude already dressed in chef’s clothes. 

The sun was shining brightly when she reached the farms near the city, but it didn’t make the weather much warmer. It was Skyrim, after all, and there were two kinds of weathers: cold and colder. She left Shadowmere near the docks where the city of Solitude towered above them, and where she knew she could find a hidden escape. 

The main gates were locked, with two guards standing at each side and several others at the top. Méra wondered if it was only because of the Emperor’s visit or because Ulfric had killed the king months ago. She walked to one of the guards, but when she said she was the Gourmet, the man laughed.

“Why, of course! And I’m the Emperor!” He turned to the others, who laughed as well. “Leave, before I throw you into a nice cell.”

Méra clenched her fists to stop herself from pulling her dagger out of her boot and cut his tongue out. She reached into her pocket instead, which caused the guards to draw their weapons, but only a piece of parchment was in her hand. The man took off his helmet to read through the letter—he was an old Nord, and looked like he didn’t know how to smile. He exchanged a knowing glance with the others, before folding the parchment in half and gave it back to Méra. The gates opened, and she walked in. 

Solitude used to be a rich and festive city, with busy shops and loud merchants everywhere. Once it reminded Méra of a happy and carefree childhood, but later, she could only think of it as the city of ghosts. Now, it even looked like it. There were no children running up and down on the streets, no people chattering loudly in front of the inns. Instead, many guards patrolled around. It didn’t surprise Méra. The death of King Torygg, the assassinations of Vittoria, the murder of the commander’s son and the execution of Roggvir—it all happened in the matter of a few months. And between all of it, the Civil War was only getting worse. 

While she walked across the large marketplace, Méra caught a glimpse of the marble towers and azure domes of the Blue Palace. She hadn’t set a foot into Solitude in more than a decade, and now she had to see her old home twice in a month. Just seeing the building from a distance made her heart ache. Will the pain ever go away?

It surprised Méra that the courtyard of the castle wasn’t crowded with soldiers—at least no more than usual. The Emperor was here, and she thought they would have strengthened their defences. Her heart skipped a beat when she recognized the man by the front door: it was Commander Maro. 

“What’s this now?” The man asked and snatched the parchment that Méra handed to him. He quickly read it, snapping his head up when he finished. He clenched his jaw and his features tightened, and when he spoke, there was a shift in his tone that Méra couldn’t quite understand. “I’m sorry,” he said indifferently. “I didn’t realize it was you. Let me show you to the kitchen.” 

Méra thanked him with a smile and the commander led her into the castle. There was no one in the throne room and no one in the long corridor that led down the kitchens; not even a single guard. Was this all Astrid’s work?

“Gianna,” Commander Maro said as the two of them stepped into the large kitchen. The Imperial woman snapped her head up; she looked arrogant, but when the commander introduced her to the Gourmet, her face started to glow. She wiped her hands on her apron and walked closer to Méra, bowing a little with an excited grin. 

“The Gourmet!” Gianna exclaimed. “When I heard that the Gourmet was being brought in to cook for the Emperor, I could hardly believe it. I can still hardly believe it!” She giggled nervously, shooing away the other workers while she led Méra to the pot. “It is such an honour to get a chance to prepare a meal with the best chef in the entire Empire! Oh, just wait until I tell this to my dear mother. Here, put this on,” she shoved a chef hat into her hands. “The Emperor has requested your signature dish, the Potage la Magnifique. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken the liberty of getting it started. The base broth is already boiled.”

After a half an hour, Méra started to get exhausted of the woman: she was a walking chatterbox. Even if she wanted to say something, she couldn’t have, as Gianna barely took a moment to draw a breath. Méra seriously considered giving her a taste of the jarrin root as well. Instead, she sat down on a chair and lazily leaned back against the wall, giving a few instructions to the Imperial. Now she was glad Nazir taught her to cook in their free time; she never thought it would come useful one day.

“I have to say, I never would have guessed it you’re a Nord! Where did you learn to cook like that? Surely not here in Skyrim—”

“Gianna,” Méra sighed, standing up from the chair to walk to the woman. “Where I learned to cook is none of your business,” she dipped a spoon into the stew to taste it. “I think it’s ready,” she said, before Gianna had a chance to speak up. “Just one final ingredient.”

She pulled the small piece of the root out of her pocket and gave it to her—the Emperor’s chef examined it suspiciously. “What is this? Some kind of… herb? Are you sure we should add this? The potage tastes perfect already—”

“Now, now, Gianna. Who is the Gourmet here? This is my secret ingredient and this is what makes my potage perfect. Surely you don’t want the Emperor to get anything less than perfect, do you?”

“Of course,” she said nervously, and dropped the root into the pot. “My apologies.”

They cooked the soup for a few minutes longer, before Méra said it was ready. Gianna fixed her hair and changed her apron for a cleaner one, before she went back to the pot and turned to Méra.

“Alright. I’ll carry the stew pot, and lead the way up to the dining room. I’m sure the Emperor and his guest are  _ dying _ to meet you,” she said, both nervous and excited.

Méra couldn’t hold back a grin at her choice of words. “I’m sure about that too.”

All the way through the castle, Gianna kept talking and talking about how nervous she was. Méra needed to gather all of her self-control to stop herself from stabbing her in the back while she walked behind her, but thankfully, they reached the dining room shortly. A guard standing next to the door led them inside.

It was a large, richly decorated room with red carpets, red Imperial flags, paintings on the wall, and a long table in the middle. A few noble men and women sat around it, judging by their clothes, with the Emperor at the head of the table. There were only two guards in the room.

“Ah! Here we are. Honoured guests, I present to you – the Gourmet!”

Méra couldn’t hide her frown. Something wasn’t right with the way he talked. She had met Titus Mede II once, when she was maybe ten years old, but the memory was old and blurry. Yet, she tried to remember what wasn’t right, searching for one, little detail.

But while she was lost in her own thoughts, Gianna served the food, and the Emperor raised his spoon to taste the soup.

Méra inched closer to the door that led outside. There were only two agents of the Penitus Oculatus inside, and she didn’t doubt she could take them down with her dagger, but it was still better to have another plan.

“Hmm,” the Emperor nodded, tasting the food slowly. “This is amazing,” he coughed now, his face reddening. Astrid didn’t lie – the poison was indeed fast. “Just as… I’m sorry, just as I imagined.”

He choked his last words out and reached his hand out for a goblet, but before he could wrap his fingers around it, he dropped dead on the ground. The noble men and women around the table gasped and yelled in shock and horror and didn’t hesitate before they jumped up to leave the room. Taking an advantage of the chaos, Méra fled the other way. She caught a last glimpse of Gianna’s face, whose eyes were glued to the Emperor, her jaw dropped.

Once she was outside, Méra closed the door and pulled her knife out of her boot. She waited a few seconds, but no one came after her.  _ Strange _ , she thought, but then she remembered what Astrid had told her: she had bribed the guards. Still, it was the Emperor… 

She walked further on the bridge that stretched above the city, but halted when she heard a noise.  _ Was someone… clapping? _

“That man was, by far, the most insufferable decoy the Empire has ever employed. I’m glad he’s dead. But I’m even happier that  _ you _ killed him.”

Commander Maro walked out of the tower at the end of the bridge, slowly, with five of his soldiers around him. Méra’s grip tightened around her dragger. She was at a loss of words.  _ A decoy? _

Then, with a shiver running up her spine, she realized what she found so strange about the way the “Emperor” talked. His accent. He was no royalty. 

“Surprised? So was I, when a member of your little family came to me with the plan,” he said, nodding at two of his men. They hurried towards Méra with their weapon drawn and ready to strike.

But Méra was quicker. Before they could reach her, she started running too, dropping herself down on the ground and when she was close enough, she kicked a man’s legs out from under him. He fell over, onto his back, and she plunged her dagger into his head. She pulled it out just in time to lean away from the other guard’s weapon, but Maro sent two other men at her. The three of them managed to seize her but they didn’t kill her; they only held her down, on her knees. A guard, who kept her hands behind her back wrenched her dagger out of her palm, giving it to his commander. 

Maro stepped closer, sighing.

“You’re going to pay for this,” Méra said through gritted teeth. She wasn’t afraid. She was furious. “Kill me, and the Dark Brotherhood will come for all of you.”

The commander laughed quietly, before he took a deep breath, and his face became more serious. “You see, we worked out a deal… an exchange. I get you, and the Dark Brotherhood gets to continue its existence.”

“You’re lying,” Méra said, shaking her head. That couldn’t be true. No one ever would betray her from the brotherhood. No one. 

“Well, I lied about one thing,” Maro said quietly. His hand snaked around her neck, painfully gripping her hair at the back of her head. “After I kill you, I’ll butcher each and every one of your miserable friends.”

Méra wasn’t sure what hurt more: the words Maro spoke or the dagger that followed them, sinking deep into her stomach. The pain blinded Méra as he twisted the blade, but she could only think of one thing: She will kill them. All of them.

“You killed my son!” Maro raised his arm again, and this time, he aimed for her heart. “And now, you will pay the—”

Before he could finish the sentence, or make the lethal strike on her, Méra gathered her strength and kicked the man in the shin behind her. It wasn’t too strong, but it was enough to make his grip weaker for a second, and she could free herself. She leaned away, picked a sword up from the ground and struck towards Maro, but she missed, barely leaving a cut on his cheek.

“Kill her!” He shouted angrily. “KILL HER!”

Méra had no chance. She just got a knife into her stomach, she was wearing a dress, and there were too many of them against her. When Commander Maro yelled, the bells of Solitude went off and soon, more and more guards hurried up to the bridge. There was nowhere to go. She cut down two more men that were close, before she took a deep breath and jumped off the bridge. 

To her luck, she found herself on top of many sacks of potatoes, somewhere in the middle of the marketplace. It wasn’t exactly soft, but it was still better than falling on the cobblestones. She heard shouts, cries, and to her surprise, an arm reached out to pull her up. She almost cut his head off by reflex, but it was only a merchant. 

“Thanks.”

“Well, why don’t you start thanking me with some gold? You ruined my wares!”

Every inch of her body ached from the fall, but the noise of the approaching guards made her move. She ran, fighting her way through the many wooden booths of the market. Every gate was heavily guarded—there was no point in trying to escape through them. 

She reached a narrow alley, a wall that looked over the docks, and seeing no other choice, she started to climb. When she was only halfway through up, an arrow bounced off the stone, next to her head, followed by several others.  _ Thanks to the gods they can’t aim,  _ Méra thought, right before one pierced through her left arm. It nearly made her lose her balance, but she was so close; she couldn’t fail now. She pulled her body up on to the top of the wall, and without looking at what waited for her below, she jumped. If the fall didn’t kill her, then the guards surely would. 

The wild bushes that spread along by the high stone walls broke the fall, but Méra heard the nauseating sound of a breaking bone when she hit the ground. She pressed her palm on her stomach where she was still heavily bleeding, staining her white dress. 

She wasn’t sure how she gathered enough strength to stand up. Every little movement hurt, even breathing, let alone walking. She couldn’t die, not now.  _ They’re going to kill them. They’re going to kill all of them… _

“Shadowmere.” It came out no louder than a whisper when she saw the horse nearby. If only she could reach her… She opened her mouth to shout her name, but only blood came up her throat. 

As if the mare felt her presence, she whinnied and turned around, galloping to Méra immediately. The guards were still nowhere, but they had to be close. She climbed up on the horse’s back, resting her head against her back. 

“Take me home.”


	3. It's Not Time Yet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the support, I hope you enjoy the story. <3

Shadowmere was not an ordinary horse: she was faster, stronger, and smarter than any of her kind. She knew where she needed to go to get rid of the people chasing them, and it didn’t take too long until the Emperor’s guard lost track of them. If it wasn’t for the mare, Méra would be probably dead by now: she couldn’t even take the fight up against one man, let alone a whole group of trained soldiers. 

The loss of blood made Méra weak and dizzy. One second she was aware of her surroundings, only to lose her consciousness in the next. The sun shined so brightly it hurt her eyes, then she blinked, and it was dark. She felt the snow against her cheek, but it soon turned into freezing rain. They rode into the shadows of the woods, when she closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, they were out in the flowery fields. 

It went on and on for hours that only seemed like seconds, and Méra wasn’t sure anymore that she would reach the sanctuary. Bubbling anger grew in her stomach, but there was something bigger than her fury: her fear. What if she couldn’t make it in time? If she couldn’t warn her brothers and sisters? Her fingers clutched Shadowmere’s black mane, but her grip weakened with each passing minute, until she couldn’t hold onto her anymore. And soon, she felt herself slipping off, followed by a sharp pain on the back of her head, and everything went dark. 

* * *

“Do you think she’s going to make it?” A woman asked, quiet and worried. Méra couldn’t open her eyes—she didn’t have the strength for it anymore. She wasn’t even sure whether the voices were real or if she was only dreaming.

“No. Just look at her,” this time, a man spoke. He was panting, his deep voice tired and hoarse. “She’s barely alive.”

With each word, their voices became more and more distant. It sounded like an echo, coming from somewhere far away. Méra shivered with cold and pain. 

“If we could take her to a healer—”

“Whiterun is the closest city, and yet it is at least a day’s ride on horseback,” the man cut her off. “She wouldn’t make it. Besides, it’s almost dark, and she’s bleeding all over. She will attract every beast from around here.”

“We can’t just let her die!” The woman yelled in frustration. Méra heard the man’s groan, murmuring something under his breath, before another man spoke up; his voice very similar to the other one.

“I’m open to suggestions. But I won’t let us die because of her.” It was only a whisper now in her head, then only half-sentences and incoherent words. Méra couldn’t catch more while she was sinking, falling into something deep, something dark, something infinite.

And suddenly, she was up on her feet. Gods know how long after – time didn’t matter here, or maybe, it didn’t even exist. There was no smell of blood. She was warm, dry, and… no, she wasn’t alive. There were no wounds on her body; nothing hurt. Méra took a step forward, opening and closing her eyes a couple times – she saw no difference. The darkness made her quiver with fear. She ran into the void, but her footsteps left no echo. Everything was awfully silent.

_ NIID. _

It was like a roar of thunder, and Méra slowly closed her eyes as the sound filled her. She heard the rough words from everywhere; from around her in the endless place, inside her head, inside her whole being. It gave off the feeling that even the source of it was untouchable. 

“Who’s there?” 

_ NII LOS NI TIID. _

“Can I just die in peace?” she asked, louder this time, even though she didn’t expect to get an answer. Or, if she did, she wouldn’t understand it anyway. This language was unknown to her.

_ NII LOS NI TIID.  _

She heard the same words again, and in the blink of an eye, it was cold again. Fresh air filled her lungs, but her eyes were still closed, and she could feel her own, slow but steady heartbeat. Snaps and crackles of a fire, a wolf howling in the distance, an owl hooting somewhere above her. Méra slowly sank back down, but not so deep this time.

* * *

When she opened her eyes, everything that had happened in the darkness seemed distant, inaccessible, like the way people remember their dreams after they wake up. The more time passed, the more distant it felt, until Méra wasn’t even sure anymore if it had really happened.

She blinked a few times and stared at the ceiling: the pale sunlight streamed in through the slits between the wooden planks. She was sweating and it was hard to breathe, and she realized quickly why: several furs and other people’s cloaks covered her body. She elbowed up, but almost immediately fell back on the bedroll – every inch of her body hurt, and most of all, her head. She heard low chattering from outside, but the voices weren’t familiar at all.

Slower this time, Méra fought herself up into a sitting position, but leaned her shoulder against the wall. The process left her panting, and she doubted she would be able to stand up, let alone run away if it was necessary. As the thick furs and cloaks slipped off her, she noticed she was at least half-naked, so she kept one around her body. Someone had cleaned and bandaged the wounds on her stomach and on her left arm. Whoever had found her, they were probably not her enemy, but she decided to stay careful. 

She looked around in the small shack. A few bedrolls, barrels, a long table but no chairs. Knives and bowls and tankards. It looked more like a hunter’s rest than someone’s home. Soon enough, her eyes found something familiar: her katana, her backpack, and Shadowmere’s saddle were propped against the opposite wall. They were only a little more than an arm’s reach away, but Méra knew she was too weak and in too much pain to even lift the sword. She tried to straighten herself, but her chest ached and burned. Being so vulnerable was driving her mad, but the approaching footsteps and the creaky sound as the door opened made her forget about her pain for a moment.

“You’re awake!” A short woman exclaimed, surprise on her face. She wore a light leather armour, showing off the brown skin of her muscular arms. She crouched as two men stepped into the shack too, and Méra involuntarily slipped away; her back touching the wooden wall. 

“Don’t be afraid, we mean no harm,” she said in a soothing tone, lifting her palms, as if she had cornered a wild animal. Her features were soft, and when she came closer, Méra realized how young she was. She had seen twenty winters, maybe.

“Who are you?” Méra asked quieter than she intended to, but her voice was still weak.

“Here, drink this.” The woman reached back to the table and gave her a leather cup, filling it with fresh, cold water. “I’m Ria, and they’re Farkas and Vilkas. They aren’t as scary as they look,” she chuckled, pouring some more water for Méra as she had already emptied the first cup. “Well, maybe Vilkas is,” she said quietly, before she went on. “We’re Companions.”

That at least explained why she was still alive - the Companions would never miss a chance to play the hero. She put the cup down and wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, before she leaned back against the wall. She slipped her palm under the cloak that was draped over her and pressed on her side: her ribs were broken for sure. 

Her eyes wandered to the two men as she lifted her head. They had similar black hair, blue eyes and dark beards. They were both tall and had a strong physique, but one of them was bulkier than the other. Their resemblances were obvious, but their little characteristics made them very different: like how one of them had a curious, kind gaze while the other seemed aloof, cautious. 

“Are you two related?”

One of the two chuckled, while the other narrowed his eyes and said, “Very funny. We’ve never heard this before.”

“Vilkas…”

Ria rolled her eyes. “Don’t mind them,” she smiled, and inched closer again. “What happened to you?”

Méra opened her mouth to say that she didn’t know, but then, with a shiver of fear, she realized it wouldn’t even be a lie: she truly had no idea what had happened. She frowned hard and put her hand on the back of her aching head, but she hissed from the pain. It was impossible to remember what happened. Everything felt like a dream, blurry and distant, quiet and empty.

“It’s okay,” Ria said softly as she saw the desperate look on Méra’s face. “You fell off your horse and hit your head very hard. We just saw it from the road. You lost so much blood we thought you won’t make it through the night,” she went on, worry and doubt mixed in her voice. “I had some healing potions, but, well… Well, we really didn’t expect you to survive the night.”

Méra let out a small chuckle, only to regret it immediately. She had to do something with her ribs. “It isn’t so easy to get rid of me.”

Ria chuckled nervously. “I’m not very good with healing spells, but I guess I’m still the best between the three of us. So, I cleaned your wounds and applied some potions, and as you see, you’re here,” she smiled happily. “You’ve been asleep for two days.”

Suddenly, her heart gave a painful jolt. Why did she feel like she was running out of time?

“And what’s your name?” Farkas asked this time, lazily leaning against the table. His brother stood close to him at the door, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Méra,” she said after a little pause. She used fake names multiple times before, but she didn’t feel like it was necessary now. “Where’s Shadowmere? My horse.”

“That beast had a name?” Vilkas asked. “I think it had some serious sickness. Anthrax? Rabies? Ataxia? Its eyes were red, and it snarled like a mad dog while we tried to  _ save you _ ,” he added the last words slowly, not even trying to hide his grudge.

Méra sighed, but her face stayed blank. “So you killed her.”

“We didn’t have any other choice,” Farkas said apologetically. “She attacked us, you see.”

“We’re sorry about your horse,” Ria said. “But at least you’re alive! You’re incredibly lucky.”

_ Or unlucky _ , she thought bitterly, but she didn’t say anything. Ria asked if she was hungry, and even though she was starving, she needed to get some more sleep first. At least that was what she said. She wanted to be left alone to try and figure out what in the Oblivion had happened, but no matter how hard she tried to recall the sequence of events, she just made her head hurt more. She knew she was in the castle, she knew she had killed the Emperor, and she knew she had escaped through the bridge. And she remembered soldiers in crimson uniforms - not the guards of Solitude, but Maro’s agents. But how did she make it through them?

The pulsating ache at the back of her head paralyzed her, and soon, she just wanted something that could ease her pain. She sighed and murmured a curse under her breath, her chest aching. Unlike Festus Krex, she never liked nor trusted magic. Now, however, she was glad the old man had taught her a few spells. Restoration was quite useful, and she could heal minor injuries perfectly. 

With Ria’s help (who proved to be quite great with magic) she managed to fix her ankle and her ribs, but she would rather not experiment on her head. Casting spells made her even more exhausted than she already was, but she gathered just enough strength to put on her leather armour. Outside the sanctuary, Méra almost never slept without it or knife under her pillow - better to be safe than sorry. She thought sleep wouldn’t come soon, but she was so exhausted that she dozed off within minutes.

* * *

It was already dark outside when Méra woke up, but she was still alone in the shack. She was only half-awake, but she could hear the twins as they talked outside. Méra didn’t intend to listen on their conversation; in fact, she ignored them and tried to sleep again, until the mention of her name caught her ears.

“No, Farkas, I don’t trust her. And you shouldn’t, either.”

“You don’t trust anyone,” Farkas replied, a little louder. “Doesn’t mean we should’ve let her die in the middle of the forest.”

“I didn’t say that,” Vilkas snapped. “But don’t you think it’s a little curious that the woman appears on a horseback, bleeding out, with injuries like that? And have you seen her sword? I’ve never even seen a weapon like that.”

“So what? Maybe she was running away from bad people,” Farkas said. It was easy to tell which one of them were speaking: while Farkas words were easy and nonchalant, Vilkas spoke as if he was constantly trying to hold back his anger. Ria probably wasn’t around, or else she would have definitely had something to say. “And that sword maybe isn’t even hers. She doesn’t seem like someone who could wield it.”

“You’re too naive, brother,” Vilkas said. Méra heard a short, clinking sound; a tankard crashing to the ground, followed by silence. It was Vilkas again who spoke, his voice so quiet Méra needed to hold her breath back to catch his words. “I heard when her heart stopped. For minutes, she was dead. I know you heard it too. How do you explain that?”

_ He heard what? _

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. She was seriously injured, and we helped her, and until she doesn’t give me a reason to distrust her, I won’t. You could try to be friendlier too, Vil, it wouldn't hurt.”

Méra didn’t listen anymore, but she didn’t even need to: Vilkas fell silent, and Farkas didn’t say a word either. She tried to put two and two together from what she had just overheard. She didn’t talk much with Arnbjorn, but she had learned enough from his past. He had told her about his days in Jorrvaskr and about the Companions - including their little secret. 

She dozed on and off for the rest of the night, before a nightmare woke her up for good. She was on the bridge, surrounded by people, but they weren’t Maro’s agents. It was the Dark Brotherhood, her brothers and sisters, coming at her with drawn weapons. She was sweating and panting while she sat up, trying to slow her breaths down.  _ It was only a dream.  _

She threw the covers off of her body and ran her fingers through her messy locks, burying her face in her palms. She wanted to remember so badly, so desperately. 

By the moonlight that streamed into the cabin, Méra saw Ria as she slept close to her, and in the corner, one of the twins who was snoring under his cloak. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to sleep anymore, she stood up and draped her cape around her shoulders, her katana on her back, before she left the cabin.

Vilkas sat on a log nearby, next to a small fire. He jumped a little when he noticed Méra, who approached him slowly and silently. Werewolf hearing was exceptional so he must have been lost in his thoughts if she could startle him.

“You’re like a damn Khajiit.”

“Sorry. Force of habit,” she said, sitting down next to him to warm herself up by the fire. “I’ll meow next time.”

When Vilkas saw her for the first time, she was wearing a simple white dress - though it was blood-stained, dirty and torn. Now, seeing her dressed in a black leather armour, with a sword on her back, he knew he was right to have his doubts. He arched an eyebrow, before he turned his head away with a sigh.

“And my brother thinks you’re not the sword fighter type.” 

She only smiled.

“Are you hungry?” He asked after a little pause, and Méra nodded. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed since she last had a meal when she left Dragon Bridge - perhaps three days. 

The Companion heated up some stew by the fire, giving a small wooden bowl to Méra. She dipped the spoon into it, then she eagerly lifted it to her mouth, but the taste made her flinch. Vilkas watched her features with faked surprise, knowing very well his cooking abilities were nowhere near to perfect. Or edible. 

“This is terrible.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I had more important things to do than learn to cook.”

Méra rolled her eyes before she looked at him. “Are you always a petty little shit to everyone, or am I the only one who has the pleasure experiencing this side of you?”

Vilkas couldn’t hold back a smile. “You’re not that special.”

She shook her head, before returning to her food. It got better a little with every spoon - or perhaps she was just hungry and weak enough to eat anything. She tried to think of Nazir’s delicious meals and then she decided she would ask him to make his special soup for her once she was at home again. 

Méra realized soon that she wasn’t the only quiet one here. Maybe she would have spent the whole night like this, sitting by the fire and drinking ale, not speaking a word, but Vilkas broke the silence.

“So, will you tell me what happened to you?” He asked, and as Méra didn’t reply, he went on. “We made bets, y’know. My brother says you escaped from bandits. Ria thinks you ran away from an angry lover.”

Méra chuckled. She drank some ale before she said, “Sounds like both of them think I’m the victim in this story.”

Vilkas narrowed his eyes, examining her features. “And aren’t you?”

“Depends on who tells the story.”

While she stared into the glowing embers, Vilkas watched her face silently. He wondered a lot about who she might be, from a petty marauder to a bloodthirsty mercenary, but the way she talked told him otherwise. She was prim and slow. Vilkas only heard noble men and women speak like this.

“You didn’t tell me what you thought,” Méra said suddenly. “About how I ended up like the way you’ve found me.”

“I don’t know,” he grumbled. “But unlike Farkas and Ria, I don’t think you’re as innocent as you look.”

Méra smirked, finally turning to him. “Oh, you think I look innocent? I haven’t heard that in a while.”

Vilkas couldn’t stop his gaze from dropping to her lips - it was the mysterious tone she spoke and the way she looked at him from under her lashes. He sighed and sat closer to pour some more ale into her leather cup, before he refilled his own. 

“My brother trusts you because he’s too soft. And Ria is too young to know what people are really like.”

Méra remained silent, but she didn’t exactly agree. When she was the same age as Ria, she had already had plenty of occasions to experience why she should not trust anyone. 

She looked into Vilkas’ eyes: they were blue, but unlike hers, they were deep and warm. “And you’re cold-hearted and old enough to know the truth, right?” She asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “Well, it’s mutual.”

That caught him off guard. “We saved your life.”

“Don’t take it to your heart,” she said. “I don’t trust anyone.”

Usually, Vilkas found it smart when someone didn’t trust others blindly, but he couldn’t help but find her answer a little strange. Most people trusted and respected the Companions without question. This woman, however, didn’t seem neither thankful nor impressed. 

“You should go to sleep,” he said. “We have a few hours until sunrise.”

“I don’t think I could go back to sleep,” Méra said quietly as flashes from her nightmare flooded her mind. She gripped the cup harder, anger filling her stomach as she remembered Maro stabbing her with her own blade. She knew she would go back to Solitude one last time. And even if she died in the process, she would at least take Maro with her.

Noticing the shift in her tone, Vilkas tried to joke. “Well, the last watch is mine, so you don’t have any other choice but to spend the rest of the night with me.” 

“Don’t worry, Companion. I’m sure I can handle you,” she said with a wink, and even though he shook his head and looked away, she could’ve sworn she saw him smiling into his cup.

They didn’t talk much after that. Dawn arrived soon, colouring the sky the palest shades of grey and pink, and Ria and Farkas woke up shortly as well. Both stared at Méra in her armour, but neither of them commented on it. 

“You look much better,” Ria grinned, pointing out the obvious, after she started to pack her things into her bag. Méra went back to hers too and looked bitterly at Shadowmere’s saddle.

“Where do you live, lady?”

“Méra,” she corrected Farkas, who stood with his shoulder leaned against a tree. “I live in Falkreath.”

Farkas looked around, narrowing his eyes like he was thinking hard, then looked back at her. “That’s good. We should be able to make it there in two days.”

Méra frowned first, until she realized what their intention was. She sighed then, talking to all of them. “Listen, I’m very thankful that you saved my life, but I can take care of myself from now.”

“Well, if you insist—“ Vilkas started, but his brother cut him off.

“Absolutely not. I’d be a lot happier if we could accompany you back to Falkreath.”

Seeing his words were final, Méra let out a long breath and turned to Vilkas. “I hate your brother.”

A wild grin appeared on the Companion’s lips. “What? You can’t expect us to let a vulnerable lady like you wander around in such a dangerous part of Skyrim, now, can you?”

“Vulnerable my ass,” she mumbled under her breath, and heard Vilkas’ laughter while she marched back to the shack. She returned with the saddle and shoved it into Farkas’ arms. “Would you please carry this?”

Farkas smiled kindly. “Of course.”

While they finished packing up their belongings, Ria cast one last healing spell around Méra’s wounds – they should be fine now. Her head still hurt, but the throbbing pain had eased a lot. The fragments of her memories, however, were still scattered all over the place. She wasn’t sure if it was because she had fallen off Shadowmere and hit her head hard, or due to having spent so much time in that dark place - perhaps both. Maybe Krex or Gabriella could give her something to fix her mind.

They walked all day and only stopped twice to rest and eat a little. Ria talked a lot, and she was driving Méra mad with her constant unnecessary rambling. Farkas wasn’t any better, but at least he was funny. Sometimes. 

They reached the Evergreen Grove not much before nightfall, when Farkas stopped to look around. The small lake had a golden gleam in the setting sun. “Seems like a good place,” he shrugged. “We can camp here for the night.”

Méra raised her eyebrows. “Are you joking? We could reach Falkreath within a few hours.”

“It’s not safe to travel at night.”

“Are you afraid of a few blood-suckers?” she asked, a smirk on her lips, and it was Ria who answered,

“Are you… not?”

Méra looked around between the three Companions, all of them watching her. Well, at least she had a chance to finally get rid of them.

“I’m not going to sleep here when I could be at home by midnight,” she shrugged and started to walk away from them. She heard arguing in choked tones and she fastened her steps, hoping she could get away before they would change their minds, but they were on her heels soon enough. At this point, she had to repeat Astrid’s words in her head multiple times.  _ Don’t kill people from other factions. Don’t kill them. Do. Not. Kill. Them.  _

They continued their journey on the main road. The sky darkened as the sun sank down behind the horizon, but the moons and the stars gave off enough light to see the path. After a couple of hours, they caught a glimpse of the ruins of Falkreath’s old watchtower, and they knew they were nearing the town. 

“I see it’s still in pieces,” Vilkas said. “Do you think the Jarl will ever fix it?”

Méra clenched her fists. “I don’t think Jarl Siddgeir cares much about what’s happening outside his own house.”

“Or maybe he does,” Farkas said. “I’ve heard that the Thalmor is watching every one of his moves. I don’t think he has much of a choice.” 

“Since when do you care about politics, bother?” 

“Ah.” Farkas smiled, and in the moonlight, Méra could see him blushing. “There’s this girl who lives in Falkreath. Well, she talks a lot. They don’t really like Jarl Siddgeir though. His father is still alive, and they say he was better, so I’m not sure how he ended up in that position.” 

“Dengeir is his uncle, not his father,” Méra said. “And he ended up as a Jarl because he’s really good at manipulating people.”

“Wait, isn’t he the son of King Halfdan?” Ria asked. As Méra had learned earlier, she had moved to Skyrim only a couple years ago, but the story of how the King and his Queen were murdered was well known around the Empire. “I’ve heard he still has a claim for the throne. Especially now that Ulfric had killed Torygg. By the Divines! You Nords are so complicated.” 

Vilkas opened his mouth to answer, but his eyes fell on Méra with a frown. She halted, hands clenched into fists, listening.

“Méra? Are you okay?”

“Shut up,” she hissed quietly. 

They carefully walked closer to the watchtower, where a small campfire burned. It was impossible to sneak past the men and women who sat behind the fire, and Méra had to realize they were too late: they had already noticed them. 

“Stay behind me,” Farkas said to Méra as they approached them, making her roll her eyes. She ignored him and stood between him and Vilkas, while Farkas spoke again,

“We’re not looking for trouble. Just let us through.”

Five men and two women stepped out of the shadows, only a few feet away from them. At first, they looked like bandits, but as the moonlight hit the surface of their silver swords, lighting up the signature carvings on the handles, everyone recognized who they were. 

“Shit,” Vilkas murmured under his breath, and the man the closest to them started to grin. His one good eye fell on the wolf on the Companion’s armour.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here? A few lost strays?” He drew his sword, which made Méra say,

“I wouldn’t recommend that.”

The man chuckled, but it quickly faded away. A shock of realization washed over his features, quickly replaced by anger. “Oh, wait. I know you.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. You cut my eye off, you bitch.”

Méra remembered now. A few years back, after she had finished a job with Arnbjorn and they headed home, they ran into the Silver Hand. They killed most of the werewolf-hunters, but a few escaped. 

“Well, why don’t you come here and let me fix it? It’s only fair if I cut off the other one too.”

Vilkas shot a sharp look at her for provoking him, but the Silver Hand was already rushing towards them. Méra drew her sword and twirled it in her hand, right before she blocked a strike and sank her blade deep into her stomach. The Companions were fighting too: Ria with her short sword and a parrying dagger, Farkas with a longsword, and Vilkas with his one handed Skyforge sword. 

Another man reached her, while the Silver Hand with the missing eye was hot on his heels. Méra leaned away from his blade and cut his throat with her own, not stopping to look back while the next one pounced at her. His strikes were hard and furious, but sloppy. No thought, no proper defence. These men fought out of pure anger. Méra cut into his thigh and behind his knee, making him fall on the ground with a groan. Before he could stand up, she cut off his sword holding hand. He looked up at her with a painful scream, before Méra plunged her sword through his one good eye.

“Much better,” she said, freeing her sword. 

The Companions were done fighting too, but there was one man who ran away from them. Méra walked to Vilkas and without a second thought, she pulled the throwing axe out of his belt and threw it away, straight into the man’s head.

“What in the Oblivion was that?!” Ria asked, but she wasn’t the only one who watched Méra with surprise on her face - shock and amazement were both mingled on Farkas' face. 

Vilkas, however, wasn’t impressed.

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

As Méra didn’t say anything, Vilkas wrapped his hand around her upper arm, pulling her away from the others. He stopped only when they were out of earshot and Méra jerked her arm away angrily, lifting her sword.

“Grab me like that again…”

He raised an eyebrow, glancing at her blade. “Would you really kill me just because of that?”

“I’ve cut a man’s hand off for less.”

Vilkas heaved a sigh, putting his hand on her sword and gently pushing it away, until it wasn’t pointing at him anymore. 

“How do you know the Silver Hand?”

Méra bit the inside of her cheek. It wasn’t necessary to lie, but she didn’t fancy the idea of telling a Companion that she was a Dark Sister. 

“A friend of mine is a werewolf. One time we ran into them. That’s all.”

Once again, it was hard to read anything off her face—Vilkas couldn’t tell for sure if she was lying or not. Her heartbeat was steady; in fact, too steady for someone who had just killed. He walked to the man who lied dead on the ground, freeing his axe from his skull. 

“It was really not necessary to kill him.”

“One less enemy for you,” Méra shrugged. “He would have skinned you alive, so I wouldn’t feel sorry for him.”

Vilkas turned to her again, stopping mere inches from her. “Don’t tell Ria.”

“I won’t,” she rolled her eyes, before she stepped back and cleaned the blood off her katana. “But don’t you think it’s a little unfair? Keeping secrets from your own?”

Vilkas scoffed. “Don’t act like you know anything about the Companions.”

“Where did you learn to fight like that?” Ria asked once she reached them, but she didn’t wait for an answer. “It was amazing!”

After they pulled the bodies off the ground, they continued their journey. Ria was very chattery and full of energy; as it turned out, she hadn’t been in many fights before. Vilkas walked a few steps ahead of them, still visibly fuming and sulking.

“You should join the Companions,” Farkas offered. “We could use a Shield-Sister like you.”

Méra smirked. “I don’t think your brother would be happy if I did.”

“Oh, fuck him.”

“Well, if he wants it.”

Vilkas looked back over his shoulder. “Would that shut you up?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

“Okay,” Farkas cut them off. “This conversation had gone the wrong way very quickly. I’m serious, though. Why don’t you join us?”

Ria, who finally stopped giggling, stepped closer to them. “It’s for Kodlak to decide. But with your skills, I’m sure he’d be glad to have you. I’d be happy if you joined our little family.”

“Thank you. But I already have a family.”

Just when they finally reached the open gates of Falkreath, Méra realized she had absolutely no idea where she should go. Obviously, the Companions wanted to stay the night before they left for Whiterun, but she didn’t have a house here, so she couldn’t invite them to spend the night. 

“Would you like to join me at the Dead Man’s Drink? The innkeeper has the best mead.”

“Wrong. The Bannered Mare has the best mead,” Farkas started. “But I would never refuse an invitation like that.”

_ Of course you wouldn’t. _ It would be a lot easier to get rid of them while they were drunk, Méra thought. Together, they walked into the inn, and Méra hoped she wouldn’t meet any of her relatives.


	4. Death Incarnate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm being late, but Happy New Year to all you lovely readers! :) Let's hope it's going to be better than the last one. I'm sorry for the delay - I'll try to update once a week. Enjoy and don't be afraid to let me know what you think! 
> 
> Also -- if you have a question or if you just want to talk, you can find me at [augustflynn.tumblr.com](https://augustflynn.tumblr.com/) :)

**10 years ago**

Méra woke up with a jolt, in a strange bed, in a strange place. The bed was dusty and old, creaking loudly when she moved. She squeezed her eyes shut in order to get rid of the splitting headache, but it didn’t help at all. _What had happened?_ She remembered dining somewhere in the Gray Quarter, in Windhelm. She remembered that suddenly, she felt sleepy and disoriented. How had she even reached her bed?

But no—this certainly wasn’t the tavern she had slept in during the past few days. It was a dark, empty room with only one candle burning on the little nightstand. _Where was she?_

“Sleep well?”

The voice made her jump out of the bed, nearly tripping over while she tried to find the source of it. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw three people at the other end of the room, their hands tied behind them and to the wall, a sack covering their heads.

But the voice came from somewhere closer and soon, her eyes fell on the woman who sat lazily on top of wardrobe. Méra swallowed hard. The strange woman was fully clad in red and black, with only her eyes peeking out from under her hood. 

“Who are you? Where am I?”

“Does it matter?” Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. “You’re safe and sound. Unlike old Ivan, hm?”

Her breath got caught in her throat. “How—how do you know about that?”

The woman chuckled. “Half of Skyrim knows. He was quite a famous merchant. And, don’t take it to your heart, honey, but you’re a little messy. You leave a trail. Oh, but don’t think I’m judging you! The old pig had it coming. It was a good kill. But, you see, there’s a little problem.”

Méra didn’t say anything. Her eyes wandered to her sword, which was right next to the door. If she could get past her…

“You see, that poor little girl who wanted to see her father dead, she was looking for the Dark Brotherhood. _For me._ Ivan was a Dark Brotherhood contract. But you had to steal it, didn’t you?”

“I… I didn’t know,” Méra stammered. It was a lie. When she found the girl in the middle of the forest, she was performing the Black Sacrament. “She was just so desperate and I—”

“I’ve told you,” the woman cut her off. “I’m not judging you. But you owe me.”

“I don’t have money.”

“Oh, no, no, no. I don’t want your money. I want you to kill someone for me,” she said with a devilish glint in her eyes, and even though Méra couldn’t see her lips, she was sure she was smirking. “If you turn around, you’ll see my guests. One of them is a Dark Brotherhood contract. That person can’t leave the room alive. But which one? Well, go and see if you can figure it out.” 

“What?” Méra asked, aghast. “Are you insane? I’m not going to kill anyone for you!”

“That’s exactly what you’re going to do.”

“No,” she argued. “I’m done here.”

She strode towards the door, but before she could reach it, the woman slipped off the wardrobe. Her movements were smooth, silent and catlike, landing with ease, inches from Méra.

“Let me rephrase myself,” she started with a sharp edge in her tone. “No one leaves this shack until someone dies. And I would really hate it if it had to be you.”

Méra shivered, but picked her sword up and walked closer to the woman’s “guests”. She didn’t want to kill any of them, but she didn’t want to die either. What other choice did she have? Try to take the fight up against the Dark Brotherhood? She would end up in pieces. 

The woman watched with curiosity while Méra interrogated the prisoners, listening to their stories. She thought if she found a sinner, someone who did horrible things like Ivan, it would be easier to kill. Neither of them were good people - cheaters, smugglers and thieves, but did any of them deserve death? 

She made her choice. And she cut a prisoner’s throat. After all, it wasn’t the first time she had had to take a life in order to save her own.

The woman said nothing when Méra walked back to her. She no longer wore her hood, her honey blonde locks falling gently on her shoulder. She was smiling.

“Did I kill the right man? Was he guilty?”

She eyed her a moment longer before she said, “So young. So naive.”

Méra narrowed her eyes. “I’m not naive.”

She hummed. “Guilt, innocence, right, wrong… Irrelevant. What matters is I ordered you to kill someone, and you obeyed.”

Méra gritted her teeth. “It’s not like I had a choice.”

“Oh, but you had,” the woman said, circling around her as if she was her prey. “You could’ve killed me. Well, at least, you could’ve tried. But you didn’t, did you? Many others would rather die than take another life. But you…” she paused, stopping in front of Méra. “You feel no remorse after your kill, do you?”

“I…”

“No reason to lie to me, sweetheart. I can see it in your eyes.”

Méra bit her lip so hard she could taste the iron of her blood on her tongue. She hated the woman for making her do this, but she hated her even more because she was right. 

“Am I free to go?”

She sighed. “Yes. Your debt is paid. But I’d be more than happy to welcome you in my family. Find the sanctuary in the Pine Forest, near Falkreath, and I’ll make you a great assassin, Méra.”

Her stomach gave a jolt. How did she know her name? She didn’t wait to find out; she walked past her and opened the door.

“Oh, and don’t forget,” the woman called after her when she stepped out. “S _ilence_ is the music of life.”

**Present Day**

Apparently, getting the Companions drunk wasn’t as easy as Méra thought it would be. They had gotten used to weeping and celebrating with cheap mead and strong wine, unlike Méra, who never drank too much. It dulled her, but she preferred to keep her head clear. 

But now, recognizing that she couldn’t get away from them any time soon, she made an exception. 

The tavern emptied shortly after midnight. Besides the innkeeper and a bard who still played softly on her lute, only the three Companions and Méra stayed in the common room, nursing their drinks. Ria and Farkas talked the most; Vilkas joined the conversation only occasionally. He felt uneasy in Méra’s presence, she could tell. His mistrust didn’t bother her. She owed no explanation to him, and with a bit of luck, they would never have to see each other again after tonight. 

While Méra played chess with Vilkas, her head heavy from the strong wine, the other Companions kept trying to figure out where she got her injuries. Each theory sounded more ridiculous than the previous, but she neither denied nor confirmed any of them. She just listened silently, sometimes giving a sarcastic remark, until the game had finally ended.

“Checkmate.”

“No way,” Farkas gaped at her, unable to hide his surprise. “I’ve never seen anyone winning against Vil. Well, maybe Skjor, on his better days,” he added with a chuckle. 

Vilkas tried to keep his face blank as he watched her proud smile, before he brushed the little wooden figures away and grabbed his tankard to drink. 

“I was too drunk for this game anyway.”

“Would it be so hard to admit that I’m smarter than you?” Méra asked, standing up. She gripped the backrest of the chair for some support, trying to regain her balance, before she stepped closer to pat his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Companion. I didn’t want to hurt your pride.”

Méra leaned against the table as a sudden wave of dizziness washed over her, reminding her she had had one too many. Distantly, she heard as someone asked if she was alright, but she was already staggering towards the front door.

“Where are you going?”

“Need some fresh air.”

Once she was outside, Méra leaned against the tavern’s cold wall, taking in slow, long breaths. The chilly night air was refreshing, but when she opened her eyes, the world was still blurry around her. She was surprised to see the first rays of dawn had already started to lighten the sky; she had spent a lot more time with the Companions than she had planned to. 

She pushed herself away from the wall to walk around a little and clear her head, but she didn’t get far. The sight that welcomed her once she stepped off the porch made her entire body freeze.

In the distance, just outside the border of Falkreath, thick, grey smoke rose up towards the sky. It was like a dark curtain in the pale light of dawn, switching something on deep inside Méra. Icy fear fluttered in her chest, and suddenly, she remembered. 

_“I’ll butcher each and every one of your miserable friends.”_

Maro’s words were ringing loud in her ears while she turned on her heels and hurried back to the tavern. The realization was sobering; her head no longer heavy, her memories clear and each piece back in place. She couldn’t let Maro and his men destroy her home, her family…

Méra returned to the inn only to pick her sword up from the table, barely sparing a glance at the Companions before she stormed out. She didn’t look back to see their reactions or check if they followed her. The blinding fear and fury that cursed through her veins left no thoughts in her brain except one: she had to reach the sanctuary immediately.

But of course they had to follow her. Méra heard Farkas’ voice while she hurried down the cobblestoned road; she didn’t answer nor did she stop, hoping that if she ignored him he would give up. Only when she reached the gates of the city did she turn around and draw her sword; the tip of the blade touching the skin under his chin.

Slowly, Farkas raised his palms defensively. “I just wanted to make sure—”

“Don’t,” Méra cut him off sharply. He didn’t look scared, but his eyes were filled with bewilderment. “I’m only going to say this once, so listen to me carefully. I’m not supposed to hurt you. But if you get in my way, I won’t hesitate.”

“I… I didn’t want to get in your way,” Farkas said quietly, as if he was afraid he would upset her. “I just wanted to help.”

“I don’t need your help,” she said, pushing the katana back into its sheath. “Do not follow me.”

Méra walked into the woods and chose little sideroads, making sure no one would follow her. It was pointless - two werewolves could easily find her if they wanted to - but she could no longer think rationally. 

_What if she was already late?_

The Black Door was wide open and dense, dark smoke spilled out of the sanctuary. Méra fastened her steps, running down into the little valley, but she halted when she saw someone by the nearest pine tree. Then, with a wave of nausea, she realized it was Festus Krex’s body, pinned to the trunk by many, many arrows. 

_“I’ll butcher each and every one of your miserable friends.”_

She swallowed back the bile that rose in her throat, and marched into the sanctuary. The smoke burned her eyes and her lungs, but she did not falter. Everything was so silent, so dead and empty. She found none of Maro’s men, but there were none of her brothers and sisters either. A flicker of hope rose in her. Maybe they were able to escape. Maybe things weren’t as bad as they seemed.

It was Arnbjorn’s body she found first in the ruins of the sanctuary. He was in his werewolf form: an axe sticking out of his head, blood covering his grey fur. Méra never liked him, but seeing him like this made her heart clench painfully. 

Wherever she looked, there were dead bodies everywhere. Friend or foe, she couldn’t tell: they were all burned beyond recognition. She stopped, feeling numb. She couldn’t lose her family, not again… 

Debris fell down from the ceiling, giving her the push she needed. She ran and ran, up on the almost completely demolished stairs. The upper floor was ruined so badly Méra wasn’t sure which part of the sanctuary she was wandering in. She tried to search for survivors, any sign of life, but it seemed impossible amongst all the smoke and debris. 

At last, when she nearly crumbled under the weight of loss, she heard a whimper. She followed the voice, trying to find the source of it, before she found Nazir in a half-collapsed room. He sat with his back against the wall, with three agents lying dead around him. 

“Nazir,” she gasped, nearly sobbing from the relief. The man’s legs were stuck under many rocks, and Méra crouched down to free him.

He coughed. “You’re alive. I… I was starting to wonder…”

Méra ignored the shift in his voice. Did he really think she was the one who sold them out?

“It was a trap. All of it,” she said, throwing the debris off his legs. “The Emperor… He was just an impostor. Maro and his agents tried to kill me and—”

“And then they came for us, too,” he said sharply, with a hint of sadness in his voice, before he growled in pain as he stood up with Méra’s help. “Let’s get out of here before we’re roasted here alive.”

“We have to find the others!”

“Others?” Nazir asked as he looked at her tortured face. “There are no others, Méra.”

Méra didn’t hear him. If Nazir was alive, maybe there were others as well. She helped him to walk out of the room, intending to leave him in a safer corner to take another look around. Nazir argued and pleaded with her, but he never learned whether his words could’ve convinced her or not. One last explosion shook the sanctuary, burying them under the falling debris.

* * *

When she slowly opened her eyes, Méra was lying on her back in the damp grass. Her first thought was that the past hours were all a dream, a terrible nightmare, but the ache in her bones reminded her that it was all very much true. The sun shone brightly, high up in the sky; she must have been blacked out for hours. Her eyelids fell closed.

“Méra.” 

She heard a light, girly voice somewhere on her left. _Babette._ She didn’t want to open her eyes. What if she was only dreaming?

“Méra, wake up.”

Gathering the last remnants of her strength, she turned to Babette. The little vampire sat in the shadows of the trees, hiding from the rays of the sun. She didn’t say anything, just watched her with her glowing red eyes, hugging her knees. Méra had never seen her so small and fragile. 

Carefully, she sat up to look around. Nazir stood by the ruins of the Black Door, staring off into the distance. He didn’t look back at her. 

She almost jumped when she felt a breath on her neck, something touching her arm, but it was only Shadowmere, bumping her head against Méra’s shoulder. A weak smile curled her lips upwards. _If only everyone could come back from the death as easily as the two of us…_

“I should’ve been here.”

It was Babette who answered. “They took us by surprise. If you were here, maybe you would be dead by now.”

Méra buried her face into her palms, rubbing her eyes that still hurt from the smoke. The thought that perhaps she could have prevented all of this burned a hole in her heart.

“It isn’t your fault,” Babette said, as if she read her thoughts. “Nazir told me what happened to you in Solitude. You’re lucky you’re alive.”

Méra didn’t feel lucky at all. How could she, when she had to watch people she loved die, while she made it out alive? She jumped up, storming away, but a voice stopped her.

_Listener._

She turned her head towards the empty, dark tunnel where the Black Door used to be, even though she heard the voice inside her head.

_You must speak with Astrid. Here, in the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary._

The Night Mother’s voice died away and Méra frowned, her eyes glued to the ruins. 

“Astrid is alive.”

“What? That’s impossible,” Nazir said, but Méra didn’t stop to explain. 

She rushed into the sanctuary - or what left of it. She could only guess where Astrid’s room used to be, the building almost completely destroyed. 

“Méra, I don’t think Astrid is here,” Nazir said as he followed her, limping, with Babette behind him.

But Méra’s eyes found a hole on the back of what looked like Astrid’s old chamber; it was only big enough so she could squeeze herself through it. There was a short tunnel with a low ceiling, and on the end of it, in a small circular room, Astrid. 

At first, Méra wasn’t sure she was alive. She was lying on the ground, half of her face burned to the bone. There was a pool of blood around her, but when she kneeled down next to her, Astrid’s eyes fluttered open.

“You’re alive,” Astrid choked out. “Thank Sithis.”

Méra felt her pulse beating in her throat. “We have to get you out of here,” she said, gently slipping her hand under her head. “I’ll get you help—a healer and—”

“No,” she cut Méra off; her voice weak but yet somehow firm. “Listen to me, please. I don’t have much time left and… there are so many things I need to say.” Her voice trembled from the effort and Méra wanted to stop her, to tell her to save her energy, but then it struck her. Bright and light like thunder.

“It was you,” she breathed out, her hands leaving her.

Astrid swallowed hard. “Maro… He—he said that if I gave you to them, he would leave the Dark Brotherhood alone. Forever.”

Méra was only half-aware of the hot tears that rolled down her cheeks. In the past ten years she had known Astrid, it was the first time she let her see crying. 

“I was a fool. It’s all my fault, Méra. You are the best of us, and I nearly killed you… as I’ve killed everyone else,” she sobbed out, her breaths coming out in gasps. She reached for Méra’s hand, but she pulled her arm away before she could reach it.

“Please, say something.”

Méra gritted her teeth so hard she thought they might shatter. Her voice quivered, quiet as she spoke. “What do you expect me to say, Astrid?”

“I just wanted things to go back the way they were! Before Cicero… before the Night Mother… before you. This family means the world to me. I thought… I thought I could save us if I sold you out to Maro.”

“You were wrong,” Méra said, standing up from the ground. She dried her cheeks with her sleeves and turned around to leave, letting Astrid suffer a little longer. But her voice stopped her.

“But you’re alive. There’s still a chance to start over. That’s why I did… this.”

Méra didn’t understand first what Astrid meant, but as she looked around the tiny room, she realized. The wound on her stomach, the knife next to her body, the candles, the nightshade… 

“I prayed to the Night Mother. I am the Black Sacrament.” 

“By Sithis!” Nazir’s voice broke the short silence, reminding Méra that she wasn’t alone.

“You were right,” Astrid went on. “Cicero was right. The Night Mother was right. The old ways guided the Dark Brotherhood for centuries. I had no right to oppose them. You… you should lead this family now.” 

Méra picked up Astrid’s knife from the ground. She knew what she had to do, and she did not hesitate before she sank the blade into her heart. There was a time when she thought Astrid loved her as a family, but her betrayal opened her eyes. Astrid loved control. Power. The moment she felt her grip loosening, when she had her authority questioned, the illusion she built up collapsed.

She watched as life left her eyes, before she hurried out of the sanctuary.

But she didn’t get far. She leaned her shoulder against a tree to support her weight, her knees trembling. She felt nauseous as her emotions swirled inside her like a raging storm. Anger. Disappointment. Grief and aching sadness. She sensed as Nazir and Babette stopped behind her, heard that they talked to her, but she couldn’t make out their words. She couldn’t hear anything but the blood rushing in her ears.

Until a familiar voice pulled her back to reality.

_Listener._

Méra squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could just shut the Night Mother’s voice off.

_Astrid is dead. It is as it should be. May she find redemption in the Void._

“I hope she won’t!” She shouted, startling Nazir and Babette.

_While the Listener lives, the Dark Brotherhood lives. We must fulfill our contract. Emperor Titus Mede II must be eliminated. Speak with Amaund Motierre at the Bannered Mare. He will know the true Emperor’s location._

“She spoke to you again, didn’t she?” 

Méra didn’t answer Nazir’s question. What did she care about the Emperor, or the Night Mother, or anything that comes after this? She had only one goal in mind, and it was to take revenge. 

“Find some way to dig up the Night Mother from the ruins,” she said, her tone dull. “Then go to the Dawnstar Sanctuary with Babette. It’s old and abandoned but… it’s something.”

“What? But everyone’s dead.”

“We’ll figure something out.”

Nazir shook his head slowly, heaving a sigh. “And what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to kill the Emperor.”

Nazir smiled, and it was the most pleased, devilish smile that Méra had ever seen from him.

* * *

Méra wasn’t sure how she could stay on her feet instead of collapsing from exhaustion. She guessed it was the raw, pure anger that drove her, pushing her through her own limits. She rode all day on Shadowmere’s back and slept only a couple hours at night to rest, before she had finally reached Whiterun.

It was early in the morning and the gates were wide open; she could easily make her way into the always busy city. People eyed her with a mix of fear and curiosity on their features. She pulled her hood up and covered most of her face, so only her piercing blue eyes peeked out from under her black clothes. 

The Bannered Mare was always filled with guests, no matter if it was day or night. This time was no exception. Méra heard whispers behind her back as she walked to the innkeeper, who stepped backwards at her approach.

“Amaund Motierre,” she said quietly. “Where is he?”

“I—” The woman swallowed hard, her voice trembling when she spoke. “I can’t give you any information about my—”

“I won’t ask a second time,” Méra said calmly, slipping the edge of a knife out from under her sleeve.

“Alright, calm down,” she laughed nervously. “Motierre. Yes. He’s in the last room on the second floor.”

“See?” Méra asked, hiding the dagger away. “That wasn’t hard at all.”

She walked up the stairs without any hurry, stopping in front of Motierre’s room. It was locked and she knocked twice, only to get an angry shout from the man,

“I said I didn’t want to be disturbed!”

“Sithis is due a soul, Motierre,” Méra said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

The silence that followed her words made Méra consider breaking into his room, but before she had a chance, the door opened: revealing a very shocked looking Motierre.

“By the Divines! You… you’re alive! But I heard… your sanctuary… please,” suddenly, his voice became desperate, ushering Méra into the room and locking the door behind them. “You don’t think I had anything to do with that, do you? I wanted the Emperor dead! I still do! It was Maro! He was the one who—”

“The Emperor,” Méra cut him off, her voice cool and calm. “The _real_ Emperor. Tell me where he is.”

The man’s lips curled into a smile. “You… you mean after all this, the Dark Brotherhood will still honour the contract? This is amazing! Wonderful!”

“The Emperor, Motierre.” 

“Yes, yes,” he stammered, clearing his throat. “He’s still in Skyrim, but not for long. On his ship, the Katariah. You must hurry if you want to catch him.”

Méra gave a short nod and turned to leave, but when her fingers touched the door handle, she looked back over her shoulder.

“Commander Maro?” 

Motierre chuckled. “Oh, yes. I thought you’d want to settle that score. He must be staying at the Solitude docks, until the Emperor leaves.” 

“See you later, Motierre.”


	5. Breaking Point

When Commander Maro woke up, the first thing he noticed was the lonely candle, burning near him on the top of a drawer. The furniture was old and battered, just like everything else around him. From what he could make out in the dim light, the damp room had to have been abandoned for years. The walls rattled dangerously as the wind whistled through the wooden planks of the shack, and he was surprised they didn’t give in.

His head was aching. Maro shifted his weight, only to realize his arms and legs were tied to the chair he was sitting on. Panic washed over him. He couldn’t remember how he got here and why he felt like he had had one too many. The Emperor’s ship was leaving tomorrow; he surely didn’t risk drinking and letting his attention drift.  _ Did someone poison him? Curse him? _

The legs of the chair screeched loudly against the floor as he moved his body back and forth in the attempt to free himself from his bindings. He swore under his breath, still squirming, but he froze when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. 

A tall woman rose from the shadows, dressed in black. It seemed as if her hair had caught in fire in the candlelight, her eyes glinting dangerously. A shiver ran down on Maro’s spine. He would recognize his son’s murderer anywhere. 

“I should’ve known,” Maro said while Méra pulled a chair closer, sitting down in front of him. “I should’ve gone after you personally.”

“Yes. You should have.” She played with the ebony dagger, spinning it around her fingers with easy, skillful movements. “Thank you for keeping it. I got attached to it and would’ve hated to lose it,” she said nonchalantly, her face inscrutable. “It isn’t nice to stab someone with their own blade, Commander. It would be only fair if I killed you with it, wouldn’t you think?”

“Are you going to talk about how you want to kill me all night? Or will you finally do it?”

A smile pulled on the corner of her lips. “You are right. I have more important things to deal with.”

“You still want to kill the Emperor, don’t you?” Maro asked, clenching his stubbled jaw. “And how do you plan to do that alone? All your friends are  _ dead _ .”

His words cut deep and for a moment, Méra felt herself dizzy with the overwhelming grief and anger. Maro grinned when he saw her grip tighten around the handle of her knife. She wanted to punch him in the face, to wipe that malicious smile off of him, but instead, she took a deep breath and didn’t move. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction to let him see her falling apart.

“Are you that naive, or just stupid?” She asked then, doing her best to keep her voice steady. “After all, I needed no one else to kill your guards, poison your drink, and smuggle you out of the castle.”

Maro’s features hardened. “If you kill me now, you’ll open a war between my people and yours.” 

Méra furrowed her eyebrows, faking confusion. “Interesting. Didn’t you just say all my friends are dead?

“I’m not stupid. As long as there’s one left of you, the Dark Brotherhood will live,” he said, voice dripping from hatred, before he spat on the floor.

“If you weren’t stupid, you wouldn’t have tried to kill my family. You’re talking about a war between the Dark Brotherhood and the Penitus Oculatus?  _ You _ started that war the day you broke into the sanctuary.” 

“Your family?” Maro laughed. “What kind of family betrays each other? Don’t you understand? _They_ _sold you out!_ But, I suppose, that’s how it goes with your people. You don’t know honour. You murder innocent people in cold blood.” A few, strained moments passed in silence, before the commander went on. “You want to take revenge on me because we attacked the Dark Brotherhood, but what about my son? Gaius, he… He had never done anything bad in his whole life. He was a good man. And you killed him. Where is his justice?”

“Innocence is an illusion,” Méra said calmly. “We are all guilty, one way or another, Maro.”

The man scoffed, shaking his head. “You think it’s only between you and me? I am the leader of the Emperor’s guard. If you keep doing this, you’re making enemies with the Empire, the Thalmor and—”

“Oh, Maro,” Méra cut him off, sighing. “I’ve had enemies within the Thalmor way before I became a Dark Sister. And what do they care about you? After all, they didn’t bat an eye when I killed Vittoria Vici. Everyone assumed it was related to the war, and I think we both know how much the Aldmeri Dominion benefits from it.”

Maro’s lips parted, and Méra could see she surprised him. Vittoria’s death was covered; no one suspected it was done by the Dark Brotherhood. She killed the woman at her own wedding with Asgeir—an Imperial woman with the son of a Stormcloak-supporting family. It was a marriage disapproved of by many. Vittoria’s death caused quite the uproar with the ongoing Civil War, both sides blaming each other for it.

A few, seemingly never-ending seconds later, something else appeared on the commander’s face, and Méra recognized it was resignation. He had tried to threaten her, to reason with her, but in the end, Maro realized he wasn’t going to leave this shack alive.

“I’m not afraid of death.”

He sounded honest and Méra gave a nod, standing up. Her plan was to draw this out, to make him suffer as much as she suffered. Boiling anger had been bubbling inside her for days now, and her only hope to ease it was to end Maro’s life. Maybe it would calm her down. Maybe it would stop the ache that gnawed at her chest. 

But as her blade sank through his heart, Méra felt nothing.

* * *

Katariah’s defence was poor and weak. Drunken sailors, inexperienced privateers, and only a handful of Penitus Oculatus agents stood between Méra and the Emperor. All things considered, she wasn’t surprised. While she rode from Whiterun to Solitude, she heard people talking about how the Emperor’s guard had fought and killed everyone within the Dark Brotherhood. The news spread like wildfire. At first, listening to it made her even angrier, but then she realized it could be an advantage. It meant no one would expect her; that they thought Titus Mede II was safe.

Méra cut every man down as she fought her way through the ship. Most of them weren't even a challenge, but by the time she reached the Emperor’s quarters, she was out of breath, her armour drenched in blood. It had been days since she last stopped for a moment to think, but now, when only a wall separated her from her goal, she hesitated.

She killed Astrid, and she killed Maro. Everyone who was responsible for her friends’ death was now dead. She would be lying if she said it didn’t fill her with some satisfaction, but what did it really change? They were dead, gone, and nothing could bring them back. Nothing to fill the hole in her heart that they left behind.

Méra shook herself and stepped to the door - it wasn’t locked. She was still a Dark Sister and she couldn’t let her thoughts wander. Her one and only job was to eliminate the contract. 

Titus Mede II was sitting behind a large desk, leaning above a few documents. He didn’t look up at Méra’s approach. Her sword was in her hand, blood slowly trickling down from the blade. For a few moments, the only sound that broke the silence was the little crimson droplets, hitting the ship’s floor. 

“And once more, I proved Commander Maro wrong,” the Emperor said, finally lifting his gaze to meet hers. “Foolish man. I told him he can’t stop the Dark Brotherhood. No one ever could.”

His voice was surprisingly steady and nonchalant. No fear, no anger, no despair. Méra had killed many people throughout the years, most of them for the Dark Brotherhood, but she had never seen someone so calm.

“You don’t sound disturbed,” she said, wiping her katana clean. When she finished, she pushed it back into its sheath and pulled the hood off her head. Damp, salty air hit her cheeks as the gentle breeze wafted in through the small, open window. “You were expecting me.”

“It is how it goes, isn’t it? The Black Sacrament had been performed. You and I have a date with destiny. But so it is with assassins and emperors.” 

“Are you not afraid?”

“No,” the Emperor smiled. It was a weak, but honest gesture. “Look at me. I am old. In these times, I can consider myself very lucky for having lived such a long life. Of course, I would be lying if I said I imagined it would end this way,” he chuckled, before his voice dropped. “But would it really matter if I cried or begged? I know I must die. Let me keep my honour, then.”

With a sudden determination, Méra reached into a small pocket of her suit and pulled out a tiny vial, filled with a transparent liquid. She stepped forward, sliding the poison closer to the Emperor.

“It’s very rare and very strong. Kills instantly and you should feel no pain.”

“That is very generous of you. But I never liked to choose the easy way.”

Méra frowned. If he knew he was going to die, he should be thankful he had a choice for a less painful death. Then, as she remembered who she was talking to, her confusion changed back into anger.

“Is that why you signed the White-Gold Concordat?” 

She couldn’t hide the bitterness from her voice. The White-Gold Concordat was an agreement that ended the war between the Aldmeri Dominion and the Tamrielic Empire thirty years ago. While many said it was the only way to find peace, Nords of Skyrim suffered the consequences, as the conditions led to the ongoing Civil War. 

Méra often wondered: if the Emperor wasn’t a coward, if they kept fighting and won the war, if the Thalmor wasn’t around… perhaps her parents would still be alive today.

“Ah,” the Emperor nodded, sighing. “Since when does the Dark Brotherhood care about politics?” As Méra didn’t answer, he continued. “You weren’t alive back then. You didn’t see the loss this Empire had suffered. A treaty was our only chance. But I understand your resentment. Your mother used to think the same way, when she was younger. Only later she learned that sometimes, we have to make sacrifices.” 

Méra felt her blood freezing in her veins. “How do you…”

“You are the spitting image of her.”

She wasn’t sure why his simple words affected her the way they did. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t move a single muscle while she tried to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat. Méra had never forgotten who she was and where she came from, but it had been more than a decade since she met someone who remembered her. 

“You seem like a great listener.” The Emperor broke the silence that had stretched for too long. “Would you be so kind and let me say a few more words before... the deed is done?”

Fearing her voice would betray her, Méra only nodded.

“Thank you for your courtesy. You will kill me, and I have accepted my fate. But I would like to ask you... a favour. An old man’s dying wish. While there are many who would like to see me dead, there is  _ one _ who set the machine in motion. This person, whomever they may be, must be punished for their treachery. Once you have been rewarded for my assassination, I want you to kill the person who ordered it. Would you do me this kindness?”

Once again, the Emperor surprised Méra. None of her contracts had asked something like this before. Perhaps because they were too busy begging for mercy.

“The Dark Brotherhood doesn’t do favours.”

“And I am very well aware of that,” he said. “However, I will soon be gone, and I cannot offer you anything in exchange. I merely ask you to consider my wish.”

Méra remained silent. Long seconds, minutes passed without any of them saying a word. She reached for her knife, only to let her arm fall back to her side. Why was the decision so hard? She always killed so easily, without little or none contemplation, but now, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. 

“Well?” He asked, still seated and calm as ever. “Don’t back down now. You have come this far, after all.” 

She watched the Emperor’s tired, aged features. He was so old—maybe he only had a few years left. Would his death make any difference? And his life?

_ It shouldn’t matter _ , she thought. Méra was a Dark Sister, and she should be able to kill without hesitation; without remorse. She should follow Astrid’s order, but Astrid was no longer in charge. 

As the betrayal had slowly sunk in, Méra felt more and more drained. Astrid lied to her, deceived her, and nearly caused her death. It wasn’t a mistake: it was a long chain of horrible, well-thought out decisions. She could’ve changed her mind a million times. But she didn’t.

“I know the Dark Brotherhood won’t leave me alone until I die. If not you, then someone else will do it. And I would rather meet the end right here, right now, than live in fear for the rest of my life.”

Méra knew he was right. The Black Sacrament was sacred for the Dark Brotherhood; they would honour it no matter what. But how could she do it with so much conflict within her? The doubt numbed her. She hadn’t felt so indecisive, so weakened in ages.

“Very well then,” Titus Mede II said with an exhausted sigh, pulling a long, thin knife out of his desk’s drawer. He lifted the blade to his neck, his grip firm and steady on the handle.

“Wait!” 

It crossed her mind to try and reason with him, but she knew the Emperor had long accepted his fate. He put his knife back down when she approached him, resting his palms on the table. She forced herself to keep her gaze on him when she sank her blade into his heart, watching as he drew his last breath. And for the first time in years, Méra felt guilty for a life she had taken.

* * *

Vilkas knew coming here was a bad idea. Dark, ominous clouds loomed over his head from the moment the sobbing man visited them in Jorrvaskr, begging for the Companions’ help. He had barely arrived back from their little trip in Falkreath, drained and overwhelmed from their encounter with Méra, but the anguished man’s story squeezed out the little strength he had left.

A week ago, someone had murdered his daughter.  _ A monster _ , he said, it had to be one, because no man could harm a child in such horrible ways.  _ Strange _ , he wondered, how easily the guards found and captured a beast like him.  _ It isn’t _ , Vilkas thought, knowing how achingly exhausting the transformations could be. 

The girl’s father didn’t know it was a werewolf, not until half of the town witnessed him breaking out of his cell and running away - the night before his execution. Many people still believed their existence was only a myth, a story to scare children, because most lycans had long learned how to blend in. They lived in towns, had normal jobs, friends and family, and only shifted in the safe shadows of the night, away from everything and everyone, careful not to cause trouble. 

But there were always werewolves who acted more like wild animals and less human, because they couldn’t control themselves, or in some cases, they didn’t even want to. 

It certainly wasn’t the first time the Companions had to deal with them, but the timing couldn’t be worse. There was tension within the halls of Jorrvaskr ever since the inner circle had split apart; since some of them decided to refrain from shifting while others embraced their wolves more than ever before. 

Five of them had the beast blood, and Vilkas knew that Kodlak would choose him. The Harbinger only let the Circle handle a job like this; if he sent a human against a werewolf, he might as well start digging their grave. But which one of them was the least biased? Aela considered being moonborn a blessing, with all its good and bad; perhaps she would offer the man a deal and let him go if he promised he would never show his face around here again. Kodlak was getting too weak physically to fight anyone, let alone another lycan. Farkas… He would be too conflicted, troubled, and no matter what he would do in the end, it would haunt him. Skjor was capable, and even though she shared Aela’s views, there was no doubt he would make the right choice. He always did.

But he was away on a mission on the other side of the province, and they had no time to lose. 

The stars and the moons shone on the cloudless sky, illuminating the forest. Masser was almost full, its deep red hue burning even brighter and stronger than any other night. Vilkas wished it was only the moon’s light that cast a crimson shadow over his hands. 

He found the man after only a few hours of searching, in a large cave near Falkreath. Vilkas hadn’t attacked him on sight, but now, as he tried and failed to shut out the voices in his head, he wished he had. The man didn’t run, didn’t deny, but he explained. 

Up until that point, Vilkas prayed to whatever gods out there who listened that the man was nothing but a bloodthirsty monster. A savage, someone who killed for the thrill, nothing like the Companions. It was a delusion, he  _ felt _ it. But until the last moment, he hoped his intuition was wrong.

Vilkas listened to his answer -  _ Sinding’s answer _ ; to his honest, desperate voice. Sinding hadn’t been a werewolf for long, only two years. Got bitten, couldn’t find a healer in time. It was good at first, he said, until it wasn’t. The strength, the speed, the heightened senses—they were too much to handle for a man. So much power caged in such a small, weak body, like pouring too much wine into a bottle and sealing it with a cork. His wolf had been constantly trying to come to the surface, only to be pushed down, down, down. But the seal broke, and with it, the bottle itself. 

His words disturbed Vilkas, because he knew that in other circumstances, it could have been him.

He had never done something as horrendous as Sinding, but Vilkas would be lying if he said he had never lost control. His ups and downs was one of the reasons he decided to give up on shifting. How many times did he wander the woods, only to wake up in a strange place, having no idea how he got there? He spent nights after nights, wide awake, trying to trace back his memories. Afraid to doze off, fearing he would change in his sleep. Constantly on the edge from the bloodlust, the bottled anger, the insatiable hunger and the yearn for hunting. 

It was all too familiar to Vilkas, and as terrible as it sounded, he understood Sinding. 

He understood him, but when he asked for mercy, Vilkas couldn’t give it to him. Sinding’s condition was not an excuse for what he had done. And what kind of life would it lead to, if Vilkas let him go? Even if he lived as an outcast, people in the girl’s town would never forget what he did. They would chase him, hunt him down, and if Sinding wasn’t ready to give up, it would only lead to more bloodshed.

His brother found him near the grotto, sitting on the damp forest floor with his back against a tree. Farkas was speechless while he approached him, and Vilkas could only imagine how wrecked he looked. His hands covered in blood, his shoulders slumped, his always vigilant gaze distant and empty. A fresh cut sliced through his left cheek, from his jaw to the bridge of his nose, still bleeding. Judging from the sharp breath he sucked in, Farkas recognized it wasn’t left by a blade. Even now, Vilkas chose to fight against a werewolf in his own skin, risking his life, but refusing to give in. 

“Are you… okay?”

Vilkas felt too tired to lie and too weak to tell the truth. He stared at his palms, but in his peripheral vision, he saw his brother lowering himself on the ground from across him.

“I wasn’t sure you’d do it,” he added after a shuddering sigh.

_ I wasn’t either _ , Vilkas wanted to say, but instead he asked, “What would you have done if you were me?”

Farkas let out another long breath. “To be honest… I’m glad I didn’t have to make that decision.”

At last, Vilkas lifted his gaze at his twin. Sometimes, it still baffled him how much younger Farkas looked than him. His features were still soft, not hardened and creased with worry like most warriors’. The smile on his lips was boyish when he was happy, his gaze deep when he was sad. Time and all the horror he had seen didn’t seem to leave a mark on him, unlike on Vilkas, who felt as if he had aged ten years in the past six months. 

“How do you take it so well?” Vilkas asked quietly. “We’d stopped shifting months ago and I thought it would get easier, but it isn’t. But you look so… untroubled.”

Farkas shrugged. A habit he couldn’t shake off. “I… I don’t know. It’s hard for me too, but… it’s the right thing, yeah? Thinking about it makes it easier.”

A ghost of a smile lifted his lips. Farkas made it sound so simple, but that was what he was like: taking every difficulty in his life as if they were little nothings. Vilkas, though he would never admit it to anyone, envied him for it. He envied his always high spirits, his undying fortitude, and that despite everything, he wasn’t afraid to wear his heart on his sleeve. 

They looked very similar, but they couldn’t be more different. Farkas was a feeler and he hated making decisions; the weight of the options too heavy for him to bear. Others often mistook his indecisiveness with being slow-witted, but he was anything but dull. His heart was wide open.

Vilkas was never afraid to act. Many times he caught his brother watching, stealing a glance from the corner of his eye, hoping Vilkas would make the choice instead of him. And every time, without hesitation, he did. A part of him was glad he could fill Farkas with more strength, more hope, but it also put a lot of weight on his shoulders. What will happen when he falters? When he will have his own doubts, too? 

Because right now, he had plenty. After months of smothering his wolf, he still couldn’t tell for sure if he was doing the right thing. He believed he did, at first, but he felt more cursed now than ever before. He still heard the call of the blood, felt the pull of the moons. Some days, the temptation was dizzying, sickening.  _ And what if he ended up like Sinding? _

Vilkas knew his brother sensed his wavering. He thought he would confront him, ask him a million questions, freak out and have another breakdown just like before they decided to give up on the beast blood.

Instead, Farkas stood and caught his brother’s arm, pulling him up from the ground. 

“Come on. Let’s go home before Aela kicks both of our asses.” 

Vilkas felt a little stunned, but he followed his brother out of the woods. His struggles were far from over, but he was glad that in that moment, he had a shoulder to lean on. 


	6. The Last Wish

She chose a gorgeous, elegant dress. Long, midnight black skirts, long enough to graze the cobblestones she was walking on. Tight, laced sleeves covered her arms. She pinned her hair up in an elegant braid, letting a few honey blonde locks fall gently on her shoulders. Standing out in a diverse and busy city like Whiterun wasn’t easy, but as Méra made her way through the marketplace with her altered appearance, she knew she was drawing attention. Just as she had wanted. 

Finding a decent face sculptor in this part of the province wasn’t simple, but a decade spent with the Dark Brotherhood had taught her where to look for one. This form of magic, as many others, was forbidden in Skyrim, but there were always mages who practiced dark spells. Méra didn’t ask the sorceress to change much. Her shoulder length-hair grew out to reach her waist, its colour fading from red to blonde. The sharp edges of her face softened, her freckles vanished, and her stormy irises darkened to a light shade of brown. It wasn’t permanent, but it would last long enough to finish what she had started. 

The Bannered Mare was just as crowded as on any other day. Méra didn’t try to hide and sneak past anyone; instead, she made sure people noticed her. She swayed her hips a little more than she normally would, gently bumped into men in her way, and asked the innkeeper where Motierre’s room was - even though she knew the answer. When she knocked on the door of his bedroom, Méra held the gaze of a guest who passed by, and she didn’t even have to fake her smile. 

When they come looking for her, the blonde beauty with the gentle doe eyes will have long gone.

“What do you want?” Motierre asked as he opened the door, deep lines creasing his forehead at the sight of the stranger.

“I think you owe me a few hundred golds, Motierre.”

The man scoffed and was about to shut the door right into her face, when his face suddenly lit up with realization. “Oh, you’re one of  _ them _ , aren’t you? Come in, come in!”

His demeanor changed quickly as he ushered her into the room, locking the door behind them. He was dressed in fine clothes, and while he was alone, there were two goblets next to a half-empty wine bottle on the table. Motierre was celebrating, which meant he had already heard about what happened. 

“I know, I know!” Motierre said with a laugh before Méra had a chance to talk. He sat down and waved at a chair, signaling her to do the same. She chose the seat closest to him, listening to his words while he poured wine to the both of them. “I just received the news minutes ago. This is wonderful!” He beamed, drinking. “My friend, you may not realize it, but you served the Empire in ways you cannot possibly imagine.”

That piqued Méra’s interest. “Why did you want to see the Emperor dead? Who are you  _ really _ , Motierre?”

An annoyed scowl appeared on his face, as if he wasn’t used to being questioned. Méra thought he wouldn’t answer - he never did. Maybe it was the effect of the sweet wine, or he was simply drunk on his success that he said,

“My dear, another war is coming. Everyone can see that. Do you think that old fool was capable of protecting Tamriel?” He let out a skeptical laugh and Méra wished he said more, but he caught himself and stopped before he would reveal something he shouldn’t. “Ah, but you don’t care much about politics, am I right? Tell me, did you do it alone? Or with your redhead friend? She seemed quite… ambitious.” 

Motierre refilled his goblet, lifting it in the air. He didn’t wait for her answer before he said, “To the Empire.”

Méra stayed silent, but she touched her goblet against his.

“You’re not a talkative one, are you?” He asked, a quiet sigh passing his lips. “Fine. Let’s discuss your payment, then.” 

So he did, going into details about where he had hidden all those shiny Septims. The place wasn’t unfamiliar to Méra: it was a hidden chamber inside an ancient ruin, the very same spot where they had first met. For a fleeting moment, she felt dizzy thinking that it had only been a couple months ago. 

And while he talked and talked, keeping his gaze on her face, Motierre didn’t see when she slipped a tiny vial out from under her sleeve. While she rested an elbow on the table and her chin in her palm, he didn’t notice as her free hand wandered across the wooden surface. Only when he finished talking and took another sip from his drink, he realized that something had gone terribly wrong.

Motierre coughed and gasped for air, one hand desperately holding onto the edge of the desk while the other clawed at his throat. His eyes were wide, glued to her, with a mix of fury and shock in their depth.

“We… we had a deal.” He barely choked out his last words, before his limp body fell on the floor.

* * *

Méra left the Bannered Mare through the front door: slowly, calmly, as if nothing had happened. Motierre always asked not to be disturbed; she had hours before anyone would find his body, and even then, the guards will be looking for someone who didn't exist. 

By the time she crossed the city and found Shadowmere in the woods, the last bits of the sculptor's magic had completely worn off. She dressed back into her armour, but the idea of returning to the Dark Brotherhood sent an uncomfortable shiver down her spine. Méra desperately felt like she needed a drink or two, so she decided to stay. 

Instead of the busy inn, she chose the Drunken Huntsman. The shopkeeper, and old Bosmer, was rather happy when she paid for a bottle of expensive spiced wine. She grabbed a goblet, before sitting in a secluded corner of the room. 

_ And now what? _

Since she left Katariah, Méra couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling off her shoulders. She had killed more than she could ever count: men and women, rich and poor. Old and young, barely on the doorstep of adulthood. People who tried to run, those who cried and begged for their lives. But never, not even once she felt remorse. She wasn’t allowed to, and at a certain point, she was convinced she wasn’t able to. 

Now, like an unexpected rainstorm on a warm summer day, the weight of the past decade came crashing down on her. Was it her short interaction with the Emperor that affected her so much? Or perhaps Astrid’s betrayal? 

She reached the bottom of the bottle and staggered to the bar to buy another one. It wasn’t clever to drown her sorrow into alcohol, especially because she had never taken it well, but all rational thoughts were long thrown out of the window. 

Méra couldn’t put her fingers around it. How could Astrid do this to her? To the brotherhood? She was like a mentor, a sister, like a best friend to her. How could she stab her in the back? Méra thought back about the past few months, racking her brain for answers, for any telltale signs, but she couldn’t find any. Was Astrid that good of an actress? Was Méra so blinded that she couldn’t pinpoint any red flags? If she had to choose, she could have imagined being sold out by  _ anyone _ but Astrid.

_ So what now? _ The question echoed in her head once more. She didn’t even try to pretend she could go back to the sanctuary and act like nothing happened, to rebuild something that was taken from her so ruthlessly. If only she could. She wished she could stop running, that she could stay, that she could bury every gruesome detail of the past weeks deep enough so that she would never have to revisit those memories. 

Méra lifted the bottle to pour some more wine, only to knock the goblet off the table. She cursed under her breath while leaning down to pick it up from the floor, but before her fingers could reach the goblet, someone else had already grabbed it.

* * *

Vilkas wasn’t surprised to see her in Whiterun; not really. He had a strange feeling when they had first met, something he wasn’t able to let go of ever since, and it only intensified when he saw her crossing the streets of Whiterun. Vilkas debated whether he should follow her or not, but after he had circled around the Drunken Huntsman longer than he cared to admit, he decided to enter the tavern. 

He wasn’t sure what he expected, but it surely wasn’t this. When he caught a glimpse of Méra earlier, he saw nothing odd. But now, as she sat on the edge of the chair, her forehead in her palm and her fingers gripping the roots of her hair, she seemed to be everything but fine. Vilkas watched her from the door for a few moments longer, before a loud clinking sound shook him out of his haze. 

“Companion,” Méra said after he had picked her goblet up, falling back on the chair with a sigh. “I’m starting to think you’re following me.”

“I live here,” Vilkas replied, sitting down across her at the small, round table. “What’s your excuse?”

“I owe you no explanation.” 

The right corner of his lips twitched up into a smile. Méra’s words were slurred, yet she sounded firm, confident. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone, but Vilkas wasn’t sure if it was from withheld tears or the wine she had consumed. 

“I was just trying to be friendly,” he said. “Or is that a crime?”

She hesitated, pouring another drink before she spoke. “I had an unfinished business.”

Before Vilkas could ask another question, the door of the quiet tavern opened with a loud creak. He looked back over his shoulder, frowning at the sight of the two guards. They wore the signature yellow and brown colours of Whiterun, swords at their sides, their faces troubled. The younger one whom Vilkas didn’t recognize walked to the shopkeeper, while the older man approached their table.

“Commander Caius,” Vilkas said, standing up. “Is something wrong?”

“Companion.” The commander spared only a quick glance at Méra, before turning back to him. “A man was murdered in The Bannered Mare. We don’t know much about him, except that he was a noble from Cyrodiil.”

A cold sweat broke out all over Vilkas’ skin. He had to force himself to keep his eyes on the commander and not to glance at Méra.

“Has anyone seen what happened?”

“No. He was found like that. Poisoned, no doubt.” His tone was objective, speaking like someone who had dealt with cases like this a hundred times before. “But people saw a woman entering and leaving his room. Tall, blonde, fine clothes. Seen anyone like that?”

Vilkas shook his head. “I didn’t. Do you need help?”

“Thank you, but I don’t think there’s much we can do for now. Just warn the rest of the Companions and keep your eyes open, will you?” Caius asked, but he didn’t wait for confirmation. He made a movement to join his associate, but his gaze fell on Méra, and he halted. “What about you? Have you seen anything?” 

Vilkas’ heart started beating faster as he silently waited for her answer. She snorted into her drink, lifting the cup, spilling some of its content onto the wooden table. While she was undoubtedly intoxicated, Vilkas had a hunch she overplayed her role.

“Sir, I’m not even sure how many of  _ you _ I’m seeing.”

“Right,” Caius said shortly, before he nodded a goodbye and left the tavern with the guard. 

Vilkas plopped down on the chair with a heavy sigh. “Tell me this wasn’t your unfinished business.” 

“Do I look blonde to you?” She asked, sipping her drink, and as Vilkas watched her, he spotted a long, light hair on her black cape. He reached over, pinching the dubious proof between his thumb and forefinger. 

“So whose hair is this?” He asked, holding her greyish blue eyes. He hoped her features would betray her, but she didn’t even flinch.

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, baby.”

“Hilarious,” he said, dropping the hair and leaning back in the chair. 

A quiet chuckle passed her lips. “You know what’s hilarious? You hardly know anything about me, and yet, the moment I show my face here, you accuse me of murder. I wonder why.” 

That Vilkas couldn’t answer. As a werewolf, he had insights; a strong sixth sense that made him a great judge of character. The feeling rarely betrayed him, but it was hard to explain to others that sometimes, without any proof, he just knew things. He couldn’t tell what it was about Méra that made him feel so alarmed and overwhelmed, but he knew it was better to stay on his guard.

Vilkas had to be lost in his thoughts for too long, or perhaps Méra simply got bored, because even before he could think of something to say, she changed the subject.

“Why don’t you go to a healer with that scar?”

She pulled her fingertip across the healing, white mark that stretched across his face, from his nose to his jaw. Goosebumps prickled over his skin, his scalp tingling as her hand stopped, idly playing with the short hairs of his beard. The warmth of her touch felt so good Vilkas wanted to lean into it, to melt all over the table — until he remembered where he got the scar from. Everything went cold around him then, and all he wanted to pull away from her. 

Vilkas grasped her wrist and pinned it to the table.

“Why don’t you leave the city?”

She laughed, freeing her hand. “Cheer up a little, Companion. Where did you leave your brother? At least he’s fun.”

“Is that why you threatened him?”

Méra rolled her eyes. “I should’ve known he would cry and go to you immediately.”

Vilkas sighed. He started to think that talking to her was a waste of time. He wanted her out of the city, but it looked like no matter what he said, she would stay. She seemed like someone who planted herself like a tree if that was what she wanted. Someone who hated to lose, whether it was a swordfight or a debate. 

It was infuriating and made Vilkas’ blood pressure rise sky-high.

“It’s something that people who trust each other do,” he said, forcing calmness to his voice. “Friends. Family. I understand if these are terms you don’t know.”

The moment the words left his lips, Vilkas wanted to take them back. He thought she would keep arguing with him, but she fell silent, her drunken smile disappeared, and he knew he touched a nerve. 

“Fine. You won.” Her voice was hoarse as she spoke, avoiding his eyes. “I’m out of here.”

Vilkas watched as she pushed herself up from the chair, gripping the edge of the table for some support. She still kept a hand on it while she made an uncertain step forward, then another, swaying dangerously. Vilkas stood, catching her before she could stumble over her own feet.

“Wait. Uh,” he started uncertainly, an arm around her back to keep her steady. “You… you don’t have to leave right away.”

“Oh?” She asked with an arched eyebrow, leaning her body against him. “I don’t? How generous of you.”

Vilkas let out an exasperated sigh. “Do you have somewhere to stay?”

“Well, I’m definitely not staying here,” she replied, squeezing her eyes shut and pressing her palm against her forehead. 

“Listen,” Vilkas said, waiting until she looked up at him before he went on, “Let me get a room for you, okay? Sleep it off. Then get out of here.”

She closed her eyes again and hummed something that sounded like an agreement, her head lolling forward and falling on his shoulder. Since the tavern had no rooms to rent, they had no other choice but to visit The Bannered Mare. It wasn’t exactly a short walk and Méra’s steps were more than a little unsteady, but when Vilkas offered to scoop her up into his arms, she heavily protested. She didn’t talk much after that, only when she tried to argue, but she held onto him and let him lead her through the streets. Vilkas lost count of how many funny stares he received by the time they reached the inn. 

“Hulda,” he called to the innkeeper, resting his free arm on the bar. “Give her a room, will you?”

Vilkas could only imagine what went through Hulda’s mind while she ran her eyes down on Méra: disheveled, dressed in black, a sword on her back. 

“She’s not going to cause any trouble, right?” She asked, eyebrows furrowed, hands on her hips. “I’ve had more than enough of that for one day.”

“She won’t,” Vilkas replied, and he could only hope he was right. 

He helped Méra up on the staircase and unlocked the door, leaving the key on the small table. At this point, Vilkas was sure she was already half-asleep. He unclasped the strap that held the sword on her back, placing the weapon in the corner. Méra let out a groan of pleasure when she finally and successfully crawled into the bed, but the sound quickly turned into a laugh.

“What’s so funny?” He asked, resting his shoulder against the doorpost. 

“You,” she said, pulling her knife out of her belt and hiding it under the pillow. Vilkas was genuinely surprised that with so much wine cursing through her veins, she could think about something like that. “You—you talk so much about how much you want me to leave your precious city, but you’ve done nothing about it.”

“Well, you aren’t really in the condition to do anything.” 

“You’re still giving me a choice. You could just kill me.”

Vilkas frowned at that. What kind of a person would do that, only because they were suspicious? She didn’t wait for a reply; she closed her eyes and turned around.

“See you around.”

“I hope the fuck not,” he grumbled, grasping the handle and stepping out of the room, but Méra’s voice made him stop.

“You saved my life. I’m in your debt.” 

Vilkas closed the door behind him without a word, leaving the inn. He as well had a feeling that this wouldn’t be the last time they saw each other, but he wasn’t sure how he should feel about it. For now, he thought it would be much easier if they didn’t have to cross each other’s paths again.

* * *

When Méra woke up, she had no idea where she was, what happened, and for how long she had been unconscious. Her cape and a blanket were twisted around her body, the pillow and her knife lay on the floor. She sat up, untangling her body from the covers just in time to rush to the window, leaving the contents of her stomach somewhere on the empty streets below. 

“Great,” she murmured under her breath, plopping down on the edge of the bed. She buried her face into her palms, massaging her temples to try to ease the throbbing pain in her head. 

Méra couldn’t recall much of what happened. She remembered snippets of a conversation with Vilkas, but her memories were hazy, scattered; the little fragments slipping away like sand through her fingers. A wave of shame and regret washed over her. When was the last time she had exposed herself like this? She was always on her guard and she hated that even if it was only for a few hours, but she had let herself slip.

After washing her face and drinking half a jug of water, Méra left the place—which turned out to be The Bannered Mare. It was the middle of the night, but she couldn’t bear to stay in Whiterun any longer. She rode to the abandoned ruin first, thankfully remembering what Motierre had said about her payment. 

The man didn’t lie: it was all there, stocked in a chest, hidden by spells. Méra didn’t know or care much about magic, but she recognized a bewitched piece when she saw one. She didn’t need to pick the lock on the chest; it opened by her touch, revealing thousands of shiny coins.

* * *

The sun was high up on the sky when she reached Dawnstar. It was a small town far up in the north, cold and snowy even in the warmest summer days. The wind was strong on the shore, blowing the hood off her head and biting into her cheeks. The old sanctuary was carved into the side of a rocky hill, surrounded by mountains from the south and the icy Sea of Ghost from the north. Méra stepped to the Black Door, pressing her hand on it.

“What is life’s greatest illusion?”

Different sanctuary, different question. Another reminder that it was no longer home. 

“Innocence, my brother.”

Her heart pounded heavily in her chest as she walked into the cave. It was dusty, filled with junk and debris, but it was still in a better shape than the one in Falkreath. Astrid said once it was one of the oldest Dark Brotherhood settlements in Skyrim, but it had been abandoned for over a century. The staircase led deep underground, making it much bigger than the other sanctuary.

The Night Mother’s coffin was placed in its own room, on a display, with the doors left open. Méra halted as she walked past it, wincing at the way her empty eye sockets blindly stared at her. She swallowed heavily, dreading she would speak to her again, but to her relief, she was silent. 

Méra never told anyone, not even Astrid, but she loathed being the Listener. Every time Lady Death spoke to her, hearing nothing but her ancient, scraping voice inside her head, she would have done anything to shut it out. She hated that it wasn’t her who held the reins. How much control did the Night Mother have over her, exactly? Was she only able to speak to her, or influence her thoughts and feelings, too? To guide her hands and affect her actions? 

There weren’t many things that scared Méra, but the Night Mother did. 

“Ah, you’re back,” Nazir welcomed her once she reached a large and well-lit room, with a long table in the middle. 

“The Emperor is dead.” 

“I know,” he smiled. “All of Skyrim knows. Say, did you really have to kill the whole crew of the ship to get to him? Not that I’m complaining. But it isn’t really your style, making such a mess.”

“The contract is dead, and that’s all that matters.” Her tone was blunt, empty, and judging by the deep lines that creased Nazir’s forehead, he noticed that something was off. 

“Alright…” he said, unsure, while Babette joined them. The little vampire sat up on the table, her legs on a chair, watching them with her glowing eyes. “I hope Motierre paid well for our service.”

_ No gold could ever make up for what this job cost us _ , Méra thought to herself, but she didn’t say it. Instead, she pushed the bag closer to them, cutting the rope off of it. Some of the gold spilled out onto the floor, and Nazir whistled in appreciation. 

“This should be enough to do something about this wretched place,” he said, glancing up and around the room, before his dark eyes wandered back to Méra. “How do you feel about a visit to the Thieves Guild? Delvin Mallory could arrange to rebuild the sanctuary. In the meantime, Babette and I could do some recruiting.”

Méra bit down on her lip. It was a bitter potion to swallow, but there was no point in postponing the inevitable. She knew she wouldn’t change her mind, and it was better to just get over it.

“I can’t go.”

“What do you mean?” Nazir asked, sitting down on a chair and counting the coins. “Did you get caught in Riften recently? I’m sure Brynjolf can help you out.”

“No, I… have to leave.”

At last, Nazir lifted his gaze at her. He looked confused, but he was silent. As if he knew what Méra meant, but he didn’t even want to think of it, let alone saying it. 

“You want to leave the Dark Brotherhood.” 

It was Babette who spoke, first time since Méra came back. She didn’t sound angry or disappointed, and she definitely wasn’t surprised. 

“What? Of course she doesn’t want to,” Nazir laughed, but seeing the serious look on Méra’s face, his smile vanished. “Does she?”

“I can’t stay here, Nazir. I can’t do this anymore,” she rasped out. “Not after Astrid.”

Silence settled between them and only now, with only the three of them in there, Méra realized how awfully empty and quiet it was. In other circumstances, the room would be loud. Gabrielle would do anything to convince her to stay. Cicero would call her crazy for wanting to leave the Night Mother; Veez would walk away so no one could see him cry and Arnbjorn would act like it was the best day of his life. Astrid… 

Méra liked to think that in another world, another life, Astrid would want her to stay, too. But if that was the case, perhaps she would have never even considered leaving.

“I know how you must be feeling right now,” Nazir said, and though he looked upset, his voice was calm. “But you’re not alone. We’ve been through this together. We’ve all lost our family. Astrid didn’t betray only you.” He paused, and Méra felt a lump forming in her throat. “We can still start over.”

“ _I_ can’t,” Méra said, shaking her head. “I wish I could, I really do. But I can’t.”

Nazir let out a long breath. “So you’re just leaving? You’re the Listener. What are we supposed to do without you?”

“The Dark Brotherhood worked very well without the Listener for decades,” Babette spoke, and Méra was surprised she took her side. “I don’t want you to go, Méra, but if you truly feel like you don’t belong here anymore, if you couldn’t put everything into this like you used to, then you should go. And, honestly, I doubt the Night Mother would speak to someone who lost their dedication.”

Méra hadn’t thought about this until now, but she hoped Babette was right.

“And where do you want to go?” Nazir asked, shaking his head. “Back to Falkreath? Or Solitude?”

“Well, I always wanted to visit Elsweyr,” Méra said. “Or maybe I should leave Tamriel behind for good. Pyandonea sounds nice.”

They didn’t talk much after that. Neither Babette nor Nazir liked the idea of Méra’s sudden quitting, but for the lack of a better option, they accepted it. There was no long, teary farewell, hugs and empty promises. She didn’t need to pack anything either, as most of her belongings had burned in the Falkreath Sanctuary. She rode out of Dawnstar in a hurry, and didn’t plan to stop until she reached the border. 

But while Méra planned, destiny directed her steps. 


	7. Gathering Storm

Méra woke up with sore limbs and a pounding headache, in a small bed of an inn somewhere close to the southern border. She hadn’t planned on stopping until she had reached Cyrodiil, but she was exhausted; her thighs aching from spending days on horseback. A few hours of rest couldn’t hurt, could it?

She arrived at Helgen late at night. Méra had only crossed the town a couple of times, which, despite its size, was usually very busy. It was close to the border; vendors and travelers often chose it to sell their wares, to buy something they needed before a long journey, or just to have a warm meal. Still, Skyrim was at war now, and Méra thought Helgen would be less a tempting destination.

Apparently, she was wrong; there was nothing more beneficial to merchants than war. 

The inn was crowded and there were no empty rooms left, but once she was there, Méra decided to stay for a drink. The first strong ale was followed by a second when a stranger joined her, then a third, and before long, she found herself in his bed. It was nice to spend a night with someone who knew nothing about her, not one thing except those tiny fragments she let slip. She wanted to bury the past, the things she had done and the things that had been done to her, if not for longer, then just for a few hours.

And it was nice while it lasted, but morning came too soon, taking away her temporary solace.

A quiet rustle filled the room and Méra turned around, squinting as bright sunlight spilled into the room. The weather was so much warmer here in the south that she could barely feel the sting of the crisp air under the covers. She let her eyes adjust, blinking away the last remnants of sleep. Enthis - her undeniably handsome stranger - was sitting on a wooden chair, pulling on his armour. Shiny steel with a dragon carved into the chestplate, fine leather strips and a crimson cape. 

“You’re an Imperial?” Méra asked, propping herself up on one elbow. He was wearing civilian clothes last night; she couldn’t know. “My standards are getting really low.”

He mumbled something in Dunmeris she couldn’t understand, before he switched to the common Nordic, “You didn’t sound so disappointed last night.”

Warmth spread through Méra’s chest at the memory, but the cheeky smile on Enthis’ lips made her roll her eyes. She didn’t say anything but groaned as she sat up, stretched her sore body, and wrapped a fur around her naked form.

“Are you a Stormcloak supporter, then?” He asked, not looking up as he fastened the straps on his boots.

“I support no one in this war.”

Enthis chuckled, but there was no humour in it. “We all have to choose a side, sooner or later.” 

Silence filled the room that was only broken by the sound of shuffling and rattling as Enthis finished putting on the last pieces of his armour. It wasn’t the first time Méra had heard these words, and she was certain it wouldn’t be the last, but every time someone mentioned it, her skin prickled with anger. She despised both sides and everything they were standing for, and she hated how devotedly they were fighting over stupid, futile reasons. If only they were half as passionate to go to war when her parents were murdered… 

She clenched her fists and let out a slow breath. Méra didn’t want to dwell on the past. She wished she could hide under the comforting blanket of oblivion, just for a couple more hours. 

“What’s the hurry? Can’t you stay a little longer?”

“Duty calls, gorgeous,” he replied with his charming eastern accent, crossing the distance between them with lazy steps. He leaned down, his palms resting at her sides on the bed, giving her an achingly slow kiss. He bit his bottom lip when he pulled back, the look in his dark eyes eager. “But if you’re still here later…” 

“That ship has sailed, soldier,” Méra replied. “I’m leaving.”

Enthis straightened. “Pity,” he sighed, tucking his helmet under his arm and walking to the door to open it. He left it ajar, stopping in his tracks to say something, but his voice was swallowed by the noise that came from the common area. Méra peeked outside, trying to catch a glimpse. From what she could see, the inn was swamped with Imperials.

“What’s going on?”

Enthis glanced outside, then back at her. “Well, I guess you’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

He didn’t say more, and Méra didn’t push it. She crawled out of bed after he left, washed her face in the basin, and dressed up. She took her time, hoping that by the time she was done, the soldiers would disappear from the inn. After she strapped back every knife and her sword to their place, the noise still hadn’t died away. She considered waiting longer, but Méra was never good at sitting idly. And, if she wanted to be honest, she was curious as well.

A dozen Imperials filtered out of the inn not much after she took a seat by the bar. Méra tried to eavesdrop, but none of the soldiers said anything useful. Some of them seemed to be on the edge, others were exceptionally cheerful. Either way, she felt like they were definitely up to something, and she would rather not be here when all hell would break loose. 

She had a strong tea and bought some food from the innkeeper. For the first time in days she was starved, but she packed the baked goods into her satchel, deciding to eat them once she was out of Helgen. 

Méra was determined and only a few miles from the nearest town in Cyrodiil, but the thought of finally leaving Skyrim behind still felt unreal. She spent her entire life here, filled with both wonderful and horrible memories. Would abandoning her homeland help at all? It seemed to be the only solution. She wanted to go somewhere where she could be faceless, nameless. A place where she could be free from the wounds of the past, the weight of her decisions, and all the missed chances. If she could, she would have given away all of her memories too; to start with a fresh, clean slate. And while she knew that was not possible, she had to do her best, and for now, it was running.

She didn’t make it far away.

The entrance of the inn overlooked the main square, usually occupied by vendors, townspeople, and children playing and running up and down the area. Now it was cleared, empty except for the soldiers, a priestess dressed in a yellow robe, and an executioner. 

Méra halted on the porch. Public executions weren’t rare, especially in the middle of a civil war, but usually, it didn’t involve so many Imperials.  _ What’s happening? _

Just as she wondered about that, two carriages rolled in through the main gates. Méra saw blue and silver, the Stormcloak’s signature colours, but she couldn’t make out anyone’s faces from afar. More and more people led their kids back into the safety of their homes, while others left their houses to gather around the square. The guards didn’t stop them, but they were on high alert, standing at the ready in case something happened.

Méra held her breath back. It was a warm day, probably the warmest of the year, but when she recognized Ulfric Stormcloak on the back of the carriage, she shivered. 

“Staying for the show?” It wasn’t easy to startle Méra, but she was so stunned, so engrossed in her thoughts that the sudden voice made her jolt. Enthis flashed a lopsided smile at her. “I have to admit, I’m a little hurt. Wouldn’t stay for me, but Ulfric shows up and you suddenly have all the time in the world, huh?” 

His tone was joking, but Méra couldn’t laugh. She watched as the Imperials pulled Ulfric and his soldiers off the carriage, dragging them to the square. Beside the leader of the rebellion, there were only six more Stormcloaks. Méra guessed they had killed the rest. Amongst the few that had left, she recognized the man she saved from the Thalmor, mere days ago. 

“How did you manage to capture him?” 

“It wasn’t easy,” Enthis sighed, but he didn’t say more. Méra wanted to pull more out of him, but the Dunmer suddenly looked uncomfortable. He either didn’t want to tell more, or he wasn’t allowed. 

A sudden gust of wind swept through the air, foreshadowing an approaching summer storm. Méra looked up at the sky, still bright and clear, only darkened by grey clouds far behind the mountains. She turned her gaze back at the square when she heard the noise of hooves, and the next moment, a man on white horseback galloped into the town. 

“The General is here,” Enthis said, putting his helmet on. “Oh, look what else the cat dragged in.”

Méra followed his gaze and felt a knot forming in her stomach at the sight. Two Thalmor soldiers rode into the main square, easily recognizable by their golden armours, with a woman in the middle. She wore a rich, black robe, different from what Méra saw on mages. They approached the General, but neither of them dismounted their horses. 

“Who’s she?”

“Elenwen,” Enthis said. “First Emissary and Ambassador. Haven’t heard of her?”

Méra shook her head as a no, but couldn’t let go of the uneasy feeling that overcame her. Whoever Elenwen was, she felt like she had met her before, but no matter how hard she racked her brain, she couldn’t remember where or when.

“General Tullius,” Elenwen started. She kept her chin high and her voice down. “By the authority of the Thalmor, I am taking custody of these prisoners.” 

Even from a distance, Méra could see as the General’s features hardened. 

“Ambassador.” He gave a small bow, keeping his eyes on the Altmer. “Please correct me if I’m wrong, but you do love executions, yes? Consider yourself invited.” 

Elenwen’s hands tightened around the reins. “Hand over the prisoners. Now.”

“If you want this traitor alive, you’ll have to take him by force,” Tullius said firmly. “As the leader of the Legion, it is  _ my right _ to do what I want with these rebels.” 

Some of the townsfolk loudly approved, but Elenwen didn’t seem so pleased.

“I’m warning you, General. You do not want to get on the bad side of the Aldmeri Dominion. And may I remind you that by the terms of the White-Gold Concordat, signed by  _ your _ Emperor,  _ I  _ operate with full Imperial authority? Break those terms, and Titus Mede II will hear about this.” 

“The Emperor is dead.” 

The crowd gasped loudly, before whispers rose through the people who gathered. News like this usually spread like wildfire, but this time, the Empire decided to keep quiet about it as long as possible. It surely wouldn’t stay a secret now. 

“Very well,” Elenwen said. “This will have consequences.” With that, they turned their horses around and rode out of Helgen. 

People applauded, but Méra could only hear her own, rapid heartbeat. She had always suspected that it was the Thalmor that kept the Civil War alive, and now she witnessed the proof. Many said that Ulfric’s death would end the war once and for all; of course Elenwen wanted to prevent his execution. What will happen now that she failed? 

“Well, what do you say now, Stormcloak?” Tullius’ voice shook Méra out of her thoughts. “The Thalmor had  _ almost  _ saved your life.”

But Ulfric couldn’t answer, even if he wanted to, because he had a piece of cloth tied around his mouth. 

“Why did they gag him?”

“Haven’t you heard about how he killed High King Torygg?” 

“You don’t seriously believe that he “shouted him apart”, do you?”

Enthis arched an eyebrow. “You’re a Nord. Isn’t it a huge part of the poor culture you have?”

Méra rolled her eyes. “You’re so funny. How did you even convince me to sleep with you?” 

“Stay and I’ll gladly remind you.”

A loud thunder rumbled across the sky, echoing back and forth between the mountains. It was unlike anything Méra had ever heard and it caused several of the civilians to scream. The clouds darkened to a deep shade of coal, slowly blocking the sun out. Some people left, hurrying back into their houses, while the Imperials dragged the Stormcloaks closer to the executioner. 

Weeks, months later, Méra wondered what would have happened if the Imperials could have gone through with the execution that day. With Ulfric’s death, would the rebellion have stopped? Or would there be someone else, taking the Bear’s place, to finish what he had started? She didn’t forget Elenwen’s words either, which sounded more like a promise than an empty threat. Would the events of that day have led them into a bigger war? 

But at the moment, something more menacing seemed to unfold. 

Another rumble shook the heavens, but this time, it sounded less than a thunder and more like a roar of a beast. Méra kept her eyes on the sky, unsure what she had heard, but unable to look away. It was no ordinary storm; it had to be something else. And as she gazed up, legs frozen to the porch and breath stuck in her throat, she saw it. 

A dragon emerged from the dark clouds. It reached the town within moments, landing on top of the watchtower on the main square. No one had the time to run or even to process what they were seeing, when the beast opened its great mouth. It wasn’t a growl or fire that spilled from it, but a long, deafening roar of thunder. Méra crouched down as the sound shook the ground around them, squeezing her eyes shut and covering her ears with her palms. 

The ear-splitting sound hadn’t completely quieted down yet when she felt arms around her, yanking her up. 

“Get out of here,” Enthis said, holding his bow in one hand and pulling an arrow out of its quiver with the other. “We’ll try to hold the beast on.”

“What?!” Méra asked with a sceptical laugh. Her ears were still ringing, and she couldn’t take her eyes off the great, black dragon. It rose up to the skies again, circling around Helgen. “Do you really think you can kill  _ that _ ?”

“We have to try.”

With that, Enthis joined the rest of the Imperials.

Helgen turned into a center of chaos. People screamed in horror, pushing each other over as they tried to flee from the wrath of the dragon. When someone fell, no one stopped to help them up. Méra felt arms and shoulders crashing against hers while she picked up her pace, trying to avoid the sea of people the best she could, choosing small alleyways instead of the main street. She heard the desperate screams and the sickening sound of bones snapping like twigs. If she got on the ground, the crowd would crush her to death. Her eyes no longer found Ulfric or the rest of the Stormcloak prisoners, but the General and the Imperial soldiers gathered on the square with nocked arrows.

Méra saw as the dragon opened its mouth. She prepared for another thundering noise, but this time, fire spilled from its throat. It flew across Helgen, burning everything and everyone on its way, knocking towers down with its great wings. Instead of trying to find an escape, Méra jumped to the left, hiding behind a collapsed tower.

She sat with her back pressed to the stone, eyes closed shut, her heart nearly beating out of her ribcage. The shouts and wails that echoed through the town slowly died away, and the absence of them made her shiver. How many people the dragon had turned into ashes within mere seconds? Méra had seen many terrors throughout the years, fought with them even, but this was beyond anything she could ever imagine. She felt the heat on her skin, smelled the nauseating scent of blood and burning flesh, and heard the agony of the few that were still alive. She knew she couldn’t stay where she was for much longer, but when she tried to stand, her knees buckled. 

“You?”

Méra snapped her head up at the gravelly voice, examining the familiar face. The man leaned forward, one hand pressed to his bleeding stomach while the other rested on his thigh, trying to catch his breath. Deep red spots darkened his blue uniform, his skin covered in dust and soot. 

“Ralof.” Méra fought herself up on her feet. “You’re getting caught too many times for “Ulfric’s best soldier”, aren’t you?” 

He laughed, but it made him groan and clutch at his ribs. “We need to get out of here.”

It seemed that even though Helgen was lying in ruins, Ralof knew its demolished streets like the back of his hand. He led Méra through the town, jumping away from collapsing buildings and climbing through the debris as fast as they could. The thick smoke scratched at her throat and burned her eyes so badly she could barely see, but she had no other choice than to follow the man blindly. 

When the dragon landed in front of them seemingly out of nothing, cutting off their way out, Ralof’s first instinct was to take cover. He tried to pull Méra with him, grasping her hand, but his blood covered fingers slipped away from hers. She wanted to follow him, to hide, but the beast’s attention was already on her. 

At first, all she could see was a pair of daunting eyes. A swirling mix of reds and oranges, like two smoldering balls of fire. As the dust and ashes settled down, she saw the dragon’s scales too, shining in the deepest shades of black. A low rumbling escaped from somewhere deep, smoke filtering through from between its many fangs, but it didn’t attack. The creature shook its head that was many times bigger than a grown man, slightly tilting it to the left as if it saw something strange. Just as Méra wondered whether dragons could talk or not, it started speaking in a rough-sounding language. She couldn’t understand it, but the inexplicable familiarity made her quiver.

“You do not even speak our tongue,” the dragon said in Nordic, taking Méra aback. “Die now,  _ pretender _ , and face your faith in Sovngarde.” 

Perhaps she had a low chance to survive, but Méra would be damned if she gave up without a fight. She pulled her sword out of its sheet in the blink of an eye, held the hilt with both hands, and gave in everything she had. She struck down, hitting the dragon repeatedly with so much force her arms hurt from the effort, but it was all in vain. The blade didn’t leave a mark on its skin, only sparkled as if it was made out of stone. The dragon groaned deeply, saying something she couldn’t understand in its own language. Flames scorched in its throat, ready to set her on fire, but a spear crashing into its neck stopped the creature. It wasn’t enough to pierce through the thick scales, but at least it bought Méra some time.

The few Imperials who were still alive shot arrows and spears, but it did little to wound the winged beast.  _ Fools _ , Méra thought.  _ They should flee until they still can.  _

“What in Oblivion were you thinking?” Ralof shouted once Méra joined him. “You can’t kill a dragon, especially not by yourself.” 

Méra didn’t look at him while they rushed through the town, hoping the soldiers would hold the dragon’s attention long enough for them to escape. Smoke and ashes filled her lungs, but she was sure she had never run so fast. She couldn’t reply to Ralof’s question, because she didn’t have a reasonable answer. Maybe she just wasn’t ready to give up without trying, maybe a tiny part of her hoped that she had a chance. 

“There’s a Stormcloak camp nearby,” Ralof said after they climbed through the ruins of the gates, leaving what little had left of Helgen. “We can get some rest there.”

Méra wasn’t sure if she wanted to go with Ralof, but she desperately longed for a quiet corner where she could catch her breath. Her head was so full she couldn’t form a coherent thought, even though in a situation like this, she would really need to use her brain. She looked around for Shadowmere, hoping they could make it to the camp sooner on horseback, but the mare was nowhere. It worried Méra, because Shadowmere never wandered away from her. Was it the dragon that drove her away, or maybe something else? Méra tried to convince herself the horse would find her way back to her - she always did - but she couldn’t get rid of an unsettling feeling in the pit of her stomach.

They had barely reached the edge of the woods when the dragon rose up to the skies, leaving the crumbles of Helgen. Méra’s blood froze in her veins, but the beast flew north, far above the mountains and the clouds, until it disappeared out of sight. 

The Stormcloak camp was deep in the forest, halfway between Helgen and Ivarstead. It was relatively small compared to other military bases Méra saw around the province, with only a few dozen tents. All things considered, it wasn’t surprising; Ulfric had no power over Whiterun Hold. 

Méra and Ralof walked in between the aisle of tents; all of them empty, abandoned. Ralof had lost so much blood by then that he could barely stand on his feet, leaning most of his weight on her. She was exhausted in every possible way, aching to the bones. A horse neighed at their approach, and only then they realized the camp wasn’t as deserted as she first thought it was. 

“Imperials?” Ralof asked weakly as they halted, hiding behind a tent. Méra reached back with her free hand, resting her hand on the hilt of her katana. They both released a slow breath when they saw blue instead of red. 

“Ralof?” The Stormcloak soldier hurried closer, sheathing his sword. “I thought you were dead!”

“Not yet,” he said through gritted teeth, a quiet laugh passing his lips. His face was pale as snow by then, his knees trembling.

“Come. Ruli will help you.” He hooked Ralof’s other arm around his own shoulder, ushering the both of them into a large tent.

Two soldiers were immediately there as they stepped in, lowering Ralof down on a bedroll and stripping him to the waist. Méra let out a sigh of relief when she was finally free from his weight, her spine sore from holding him for so long. She massaged her numb shoulder, trying to ease the pain, but when her eyes fell on Ulfric, she went very still.

If she knew he was there, she surely wouldn’t have come inside. She wasn’t sure Ulfric would recognize her, but she didn’t want to stick around long enough to find out. His eyes were glued to Ralof, just like everyone else’s, while the soldier named Ruli cleaned his wounds and bombarded him with questions. Méra took a slow step backwards, trying to sneak out, but a loud voice crushed the little hope she had.

“And who the hell are you?” A young soldier demanded, pulling an axe out of his belt and taking a step closer to Méra. He was young, couldn’t be more than twenty. 

“Put that down before you cut yourself,” she said, annoyed that he had made all heads turn towards her; Ulfric’s included. She didn't dare to look at him to see his reaction.

“It’s okay,” Ralof choked out, fighting himself up on his elbows, only to be pushed down by the woman who sat at his side. “She saved my life. Twice, actually."

There was a few moments of strained silence before Ulfric spoke, 

“You’re the one who freed Ralof from the Thalmor? He told me you killed them all by yourself.”

Méra shrugged, avoiding his eyes. “There were only three of them.”

An almost invisible smile lifted his lips, before his face went serious once more. “You saved the life of my best soldier. For that, you have my gratitude. If there’s anything I can do for you, all you need to do is ask.” 

She gave a nod, but didn't say anything. A quiet rustle filled the room while Ruli healed Ralof, casting spells above his nasty wounds. 

“May I ask your name?”

“Astrid,” Méra answered with the first name that came to her mind, immediately regretting her choice. She could’ve come up with anything; why did she need to say the one of the few names that made her skin crawl?

“Have we met before?” Ulfric asked. “You look familiar.”

“I don’t think so.” The lie came effortlessly, but Ulfric didn’t seem entirely convinced. 

Now that she no longer avoided his gaze, Méra had a chance to examine his face. Time and grief left their mark on him since the last time she saw him up close, when she was only a little girl. His golden brown hair had started turning into grey, his wrinkles deepened by worry, his skin dull and his always curious eyes no longer sparkling. Everyone had heard the stories about Ulfric: how he had spent his childhood in High Hrothgar, chosen by the Greybeards to study the Way of the Voice. He had always valued books over swords, until something changed, and he decided to fight in the Great War. Méra had realized then that Ulfric had been in a war for more than thirty years now. 

“You don’t seem afraid,” Ulfric said, disrupting Méra’s trail of thoughts. 

“Excuse me?”

The man narrowed his eyes. “You look very calm for someone who just escaped from a dragon.”

Méra didn’t understand the meaning behind his words and why would he sound so suspicious. As much as she hated to admit it, even to herself, she was scared; deadly so. She was good at deceiving, but anyone who paid a little more attention should notice that it was only a mask. Ulfric, on the other hand, looked disturbingly relaxed and collected. 

“You do, too.”

After only a little hesitation, Ulfric’s lips curled up, but his eyes didn’t smile. “You’re a brave woman. Hot headed as well. We need more bold people like you in the rebellion.”

“This isn’t my fight.”

Ulfric looked surprised at her words. “It’s a fight of every true Nord,” he said with an edge to his voice. “This war has been going on for too long already. And now, with the return of the dragons, we need to act before it’s too late. Before they tear Skyrim to pieces.” 

“Tearing Skyrim to pieces?” Méra asked before she could stop herself, her fists clenched at her sides. “I think you and the Imperials have had your fair share of that.” 

“Watch your tongue,” the same young soldier from earlier snarled, taking a step closer to her. “You’re speaking to the true High King of Skyrim.”

There were a million thoughts flashing through Méra’s head, many words begging to leave her lips that the Stormcloaks would call treason and most likely, they would even try and kill her for it. Her training with the Dark Brotherhood had taught her how to be silent, but there are some things that cannot be unlearned. She was always stubborn, hot headed even, as Ulfric had pointed it out. If he hadn’t raised his hand to silence his soldier and spoke himself, Divines knew what she would’ve said. 

“Collateral damage,” he said calmly. “Believe me, it’s not my intention to cause any more harm. If anything, I want to rebuild Skyrim to its ancient, true glory. But first… we must fight for its freedom.”

“As I said, not my fight,” Méra said, holding Ulfric’s gaze for several seconds longer, before looking around his soldiers; all of them watching her as if they were ready to attack. “Am I free to leave,  _ Your Majesty _ ?” 

“I’ve told you to watch—”

“It’s fine, Ubbe. Let her go,” Ulfric said, but before Méra could step out of the tent, he spoke again. “But if you could do me - and all of us - a favour… I can’t just freely walk into a city, but the Jarls need to be informed about what happened in Helgen. Whiterun and Falkreath, first and foremost. If you could speak to Jarl Balgruuf and Jarl Siddgeir, I’d be very thankful.” 

Méra couldn’t exactly explain why, but his words, the way he spoke them, didn’t sit well with her. To her, it sounded like Ulfric only asked for her help to show how gracious he was; that he placed his people’s needs above everything. And maybe that was true, maybe it wasn’t just a display, and maybe it was only Méra’s grudges that told her otherwise. 

She left the tent without a word, still unsure where she should go.


End file.
